584-1 
H76E 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


r  T 
5? 


THE  DRAMA 

A  Quarterly  Review  of  Dramatic  Literature 
No.  8  November  1912 

THE  PLAYS  OF  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS. 

0  THOSE  content  with  convenient  super- 
ficialities the  plays  of  a  dramatist  such 
as  Heijermans  are  easy  of  definition.  He 
is  dismissed  as  "a  realistic  writer,"  "a 
playwright  of  the  naturalistic  school,"  a 
1  follower  of  Ibsen,  or  Hauptmann,  or  Tol- 
stoy, or  Zola.  Even  then,  perhaps,  the  definitions 
are  not  exhausted.  They  spring  from  the  encyclo- 
pedia of  commonplaces,  and  are  as  chaotic  as  the 
minds  of  their  authors.  There  is  the  adjective 
"meticulous,"  for  example, — invaluable  to  critics. 
And  "morbid," — equally  indispensable,  in  the  form 
of  "morbid  psychology."  "Photographic"  and 
"kinematographic"  must  not  be  forgotten ;  the  latte* 
an  almost  brand-new  weapon  of  offence.  For  the 
rest,  "grey,"  "faithful,"  "squalid"  or  "lifelike" 
will  serve  their  turn,  according  to  the  critic's  point 
of  view. 

In  phrases  such  as  these  we  hear  the  echoes  of  a 
controversy  now  a  generation  old;  a  controversy 
dating  back  to  the  "free  theatres"  of  the  1890 
period  in  Paris,  Berlin  and  London,  the  first  per- 

3 


744 


f ormances  of  Ibsen 's  *  *  Ghosts, ' '  and  the  early  plays 
of  Hauptmann  and  Strindberg.  Then  the  issues  be- 
tween Realist  and  Philistine  were  sharply  defined; 
the  very  terms  were  mutually  exclusive.  To  be  mod- 
ern, to  be  "free,"  was  to  be  an  Ibsenite,  an  apostle 
of  moral  indignation,  an  author  or  playgoer  burning 
to  lay  bare  social  hypocrisies  and  shams ;  not  merely 
pour  epater  le  bourgeois,  but  in  order  to  assert  the 
Great  Truths  of  Actual  Life,  so  recently  discovered 
by  the  stage.  It  mattered  little  that  Ibsenites  owed 
their  existence  to  their  misi  nderstanding  of  Ibsen. 
He  had  supplied  them  with  an  essential  war  cry. 
The  old  domination  of  insincere  sentiment  and  false 
romance  in  the  theatre  was  indefensible  and  insup- 
portable. All  the  enthusiasm  of  dramatic  reformers 
was  perforce  directed  to  the  advance  of  the  new 
realistic  movement.  Hence  arose  a  battle  of  epithets 
between  the  two  camps,  with  "antiquated,"  "con- 
ventional," "sentimental,"  "romantic"  on  the  one 
hand,  and  "vulgar,"  "dreary,"  "indecent,"  "noi- 
some" on  the  other. 

In  Anglo-Saxon  countries,  naturally  enough,  the 
issue  was  made  one  of  morality  rather  than  artistic 
method.  Ibsen's  views  on  marriage  were  suspect, 
and  the  whole  dramatic  movement  lay  in  quarantine. 
Indeed,  realism  in  literature  came  to  be  regarded  as 
an  unsettling  tendency,  emanating  from  the  Con- 
tinent, and  directed  against  all  British  institutions 
from  property  to  religion.  The  division  of  opinion 
may  be  studed  in  historical  documents  such  as  the 
criticisms  of  the  London  Press  on  the  first  English 
performance  of  "Hedda  Gabler,"  and  the  early 
prefaces  of  Bernard  Shaw;  the  one  side  tilting  at 
realism,  the  other  at  romance ; — both,  alas,  the  most 
shifty  of  windmills  where  morality  is  concerned. 

The  provocative  cry  of  "naturalism,"  raised  by 


HERMAN  HEIJERMANS  5 

the  newer  dramatists  and  their  supporters,  was  re- 
sponsible for  half  the  trouble.  A  naturalist,  in  good 
English  usage,  is  taken  to  be  a  professor  with  a 
butterfly  net  or  an  inquirer  into  the  lower  forms  of 
pond  life;  and  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for 
the  analogy  as  applied  to  the  author  of  realistic  lit- 
erature. Pins  and  chloroform  may  be  his  imple- 
ments of  tragedy ;  his  coldly  scientific  method  gives 
point  to  the  comparison.  Undoubtedly  the  "natural- 
istic drama"  suggested  probable  inhumanity  and 
possible  horror.  In  any  ease  it  clearly  offered  no 
hope  of  an  enjoyable  evening,  and  was  condemned 
from  the  first  to  be  unpopular. 

So  much  for  the  misconception  encouraged  by  a 
purely  journalistic  phrase.  Useless  to  maintain  that 
the  older  dramatists,  from  Robertson  and  Dumas 
fils  to  Sardou,  held  a  monopoly  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness,  while  Ibsen,  Hauptmann,  Tolstoy  and 
Strindberg  wallowed  in  mere  brutal,  original  sin. 
The  alleged  "naturalism"  of  the  latter  belied  its 
name.  It  ranged  from  revolutionary  Utopianism 
to  the  creation  of  most  unnatural  giants, — stage 
characters  removed  from  the  average  of  everyday 
life  by  their  own  distinction.  Indeed,  the  differences 
between  the  old  school  and  the  new  were  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  intellectual  gulf  between,  say, 
Strindberg  and  Tolstoy.  Setting  out  from  the  com- 
mon ground  of  external  approximation  to  life,  the 
dramatists  of  the  period  soon  diverged  upon  indi- 
vidual paths.  Hauptmann  passed  from  the  vivid 
and  revolutionary  "Weavers"  to  the  mythology  of 
"Hannele"  and  the  "Sunken  Bell,"  and  the  simple 
domestic  drama  of  "Puhrmann  Henschel"  and 
1 '  Rose  Bernd. ' '  Tolstoy  became  a  preacher ;  Strind- 
berg a  Swedenborgian  mystic.  Of  the  early  play- 
wrights of  the  French  Theatre  Libre,  Courteline  and 


6  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS 

Ancey,  practised  the  Comedie  rosse,  or  brutal  com- 
edy, until  Paris,  tired  of  the  uncouth  novelty,  turned 
to  the  more  amiable  and  no  less  natural  work  of 
Capus  and  Donnay.  Brieux  devoted  himself  to  the 
composition  of  dramatic  tracts.  Bernard  Shaw, 
after  protesting  that  he  "  could  none  other "  than 
dramatize  slum  landlords  and  rent  collectors  in 
" Widowers'  Houses, "  found  readier  targets  for  his 
wit  in  bishops,  professors  of  Greek  and  millionaires. 
Nature,  in  fact,  proved  too  strong  for  naturalism. 
No  formula  could  embrace  all  the  individual  play- 
wrights of  that  stormy  time.  The  most  catholic  of 
" schools"  could  not  hold  them. 

Formulas,  however,  die  hard ;  and  it  is  still  neces- 
sary to  free  Heijermans  from  the  "naturalistic" 
label  so  conveniently  attached  in  1890  to  works  like 
Tolstoy's  "Power  of  Darkness,"  Hauptmann's  Vor 
Sonnenaufgang  and  Zola's  "Therese  Raquin."  All 
that  his  plays  have  in  common  with  theirs  is  a  faith- 
ful observation  of  life,  and  more  particularly  of  life 
among  the  common  people.  Moreover,  he  belongs  to 
a  newer  generation.  He  had  written  several  short 
pieces  (notably  Ahasuerus  and  'n  Jodenstreekf)  in 
1893  and  1894,  but  "The  Ghetto"  (1899)  was  his  first 
important  play.  This  three-act  tragedy  of  the  Jew- 
ish quarter  in  a  Dutch  city  has  been  published  in  an 
English  adaptation  which  woefully  misrepresents  the 
original,  and  I  should  rather  refer  readers  to  a 
German  translation  (Berlin,  Fleische)  revised  by 
Heijermans  himself.  Like  most  early  work,  the  play 
did  not  satisfy  its  author,  and  several  versions  exist. 

The  story  is  simple  enough.  Rafael,  the  son  of  an 
old  Jewish  merchant,  has  an  intrigue  with  the  Gen- 
tile maidservant,  Rose.  His  father,  Sachel,  lives  in 
an  atmosphere  of  mistrust,  hard  dealing,  thievery; 
a  patriarch  with  all  the  immemorial  wrongs  of  the 


HERMAN  HEIJERMANS  7 

ghetto  upon  his  shoulders,  and  all  the  racial  instinct 
to  preserve  property,  family  and  religion  from  con- 
tact with  * '  strange  people. '  '  He  is  blind,  but  in  the 
night  he  has  heard  the  lovers1  footsteps  in  the  house. 
Rose  has  lied  to  him ;  Rafael,  as  usual,  is  neglecting 
his  business  for  Gentile  companions.  So  the  play 
opens.  After  some  bargaining  over  the  dowry,  a 
marriage  is  arranged  for  Rafael  with  the  daughter 
of  another  merchant.  The  authority  of  the  Rabbi 
is  called  in,  but  Rafael  refuses.  He  is  a  freethinker ; 
in  the  ghetto,  but  not  of  it.  "Oh,  these  little  rooms 
of  yours, — these  hot,  stifling  chambers  of  despair, 
where  no  gust  of  wind  penetrates,  where  the  green 
of  the  leaves  grows  yellow,  where  the  breath  chokes 
and  the  soul  withers!  No,  let  me  speak,  Rabbi 
Haeser !  Now  I  am  the  priest ;  I,  who  am  no  Jew  and 
no  Christian,  who  feel  God  in  the  sunlight,  in  the 
summer  fragrance,  in  the  gleam  of  the  water  and  the 
flowers  upon  my  mother's  grave  ...  I  have 
pity  for  you,  for  your  mean  existence,  for  your 
ghettos  and  your  little  false  gods — for  the  true  God 
is  yet  to  come,  the  God  of  the  new  community ;  the 
commonwealth  without  gods,  without  baseness, 
without  slaves !" 

Sachel  is  blamed  for  allowing  this  open  rupture 
to  come  about.  It  is  better  to  pay  the  girl  off  quietly 
and  have  done  with  her,  argue  the  other  Jews.  Every 
woman  has  her  price — and  especially  every  Gentile 
woman.  A  hundred  gulden — perhaps  two  hundred 
if  she  is  obstinate — will  settle  the  matter.  The 
money  is  offered,  but  Rose  is  not  to  be  bought.  She 
has  promised  to  go  away  with  Rafael  as  his  wife. 
He  has  gone  out,  but  he  will  return  for  her.  The 
family  tell  her  that  the  money  is  offered  with  his 
consent;  that  he  is  tired  of  her  and  has  left  home 
for  good.  But  she  is  unmoved.  She  has  learned  to 


8  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS 

mistrust  the  word  of  the  Jews ;  she  will  only  believe 
their  sacred  oath.  At  last  old  Sachel  swears  by  the 
roll  of  the  commandments  that  his  son  will  not  re- 
turn. In  despair,  Eose  throws  herself  into  the  canal 
and  is  drowned.  Rafael  conies  too  late  to  save  her. 
The  God  of  the  Jews  has  taken  his  revenge. 

The  play  is  perhaps  a  little  naive  and  crudely 
imagined,  but  it  has  all  the  essential  characteristics 
of  Heijermans'  later  work ;  the  intense  humanitarian 
feeling,  the  burning  rhetoric,  the  frankly  partisan 
denunciation  of  society.  Indeed,  it  could  not  be 
otherwise.  In  dealing  with  such  a  case  of  bigotry 
and  racial  intolerance,  it  is  idle  for  a  playwright  to 
hold  the  scales  with  abstract  justice.  At  most  he  can 
only  humanise  the  tragedy  by  humanising  the  vil- 
lains of  his  piece,  and  showing  them  driven  into 
cruelty  by  traditional  forces  beyond  their  control. 
That  is  the  part  of  the  "Anklager,"  the  social 
prophet  and  Public  Prosecutor;  and  it  is  the  part 
which  Heijermans,  above  all  others,  has  filled  in  the 
newer  dramatic  movement. 

In  Bet  Pantser  ("The  Coat  of  Mail")  his  subject 
is  the  life  of  a  Dutch  garrison  town.  "The  Coat  of 
Mail"  is  militarism;  the  creed  of  the  governing 
caste.  And  the  setting  is  peculiarly  apt  for  the  pre- 
sentation of  a  social  issue.  In  a  small  country  such 
as  Holland  military  patriotism  may  be  strong,  but 
it  is  tempered  by  the  knowledge  that  the  country 
only  exists  by  the  tolerance,  or  the  diplomatic  agree- 
ment, of  more  powerful  neighbours,  and  that  in  case 
of  war  it  could  do  no  more  than  sacrifice  an  army 
to  the  invader.  To  the  philosophic  workman,  then, 
well  read  in  revolutionary  literature  from  Marx  to 
Kropotkin,  the  standing  army  presents  itself  simply 
as  a  capitalist  tool,  a  bulwark  of  the  employing  class 
against  trade  unionism.  The  industrial  struggle  is 


HERMAN  HEIJERMANS  9 

uncomplicated  by  sentimentality.  Patriotic  stam- 
pedes to  the  conservative  side  are  unknown.  Social 
Democracy  is  strong.  Strikes  are  frequent,  and  the 
protection  of  " blackleg*'  labourers  is  in  the  hands 
of  the  garrison.  That  is  the  theme  of  this  '  *  romantic 
military  play." 

Mari,  a  second  lieutenant,  refuses  to  serve  on 
strike  duty.  He  is  a  weak  but  sincere  idealist;  his 
head  full  of  humanitarian  enthusiasm,  his  rooms 
stocked  with  anti-militarist  pamphlets.  He  will 
leave  the  army  rather  than  order  his  men  to  fire  on 
the  factory  workers.  Around  him  stand  the  members 
of  the  military  caste,  linked  together  by  tradition 
and  family  relationship.  His  father  is  a  colonel  in 
the  same  regiment ;  the  father  of  his  fiancee,  Martha, 
is  commanding  officer.  One  friend  he  has :  an  army 
doctor  named  Berens,  who  has  infected  himself  with 
cancer  serum  in  attempting  to  discover  a  cure  for 
the  disease,  and  passes  for  a  drunkard  because  he 
keeps  the  symptoms  in  check  by  alcohol.  Here  a 
parallel  is  drawn  between  military  bravery  and  the 
civilian  courage  of  the  scientist. 

Mari  is  put  under  arrest,  but  the  affair  is  kept 
secret  in  order  to  avoid  a  scandal.  He  can  only  be 
reinstated  by  full  withdrawal  and  apology.  Martha 
comes  to  him  and  implores  him  to  withdraw.  The 
strike  is  thought  to  be  over.  He  can  plead  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  in  excuse,  and  the  matter  will 
be  settled  honorably.  He  gives  way  and  apologises. 
A  friendly  discussion  of  the  point  with  his  superior 
officers  is  interrupted  by  a  volley  in  the  street  out- 
side. The  troops  have  fired  upon  the  mob,  and  the 
son  of  the  shoemaker  over  the  way  has  been  shot. 

Mari  sends  in  his  papers;  but  a  newspaper  has 
published  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  he  is  met  with 
the  disgrace  of  immediate  dismissal  from  the  army. 


10  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS 

This  does  not  suit  Martha.  She  must  marry  a  sol- 
dier ;  civilian  life  with  a  dismissed  lieutenant  was  not 
in  the  bond.  So  Mari  suffers  another  disillusion- 
ment, and  the  end  of  the  play  sees  him  setting  out 
from  home,  while  the  old  shoemaker  is  left  to  lament 
for  his  son. 

And  the  sum  total  of  it  all!  A  warm  heart,  a 
weakness  for  rhetoric,  and — a  study  in  vacillation. 

In  Ora  et  Labora  Heijermans  is  less  rhetorical; 
rather,  one  suspects,  for  lack  of  a  mouthpiece.  His 
peasants  bear  their  fate,  if  not  in  silence,  with  almost 
inarticulate  resignation.  They  are  too  hungry  to 
waste  words.  Moreover,  there  is  no  visible  enemy 
to  denounce,  no  Coat  of  Mail,  no  racial  prejudice, 
no  insatiate  capitalism.  Winter  is  the  villain  of  the 
piece.  This  is  indeed  naturalism,  in  the  literal 
sense;  humanity  devoured  by  Nature.  Everything 
is  frost-bound:  the  canal,  the  soil,  the  very  cattle. 
The  barges  are  idle.  There  is  no  work  and  no 
warmth.  When  the  last  cow  upon  the  farm  dies  of 
disease,  its  throat  is  cut  so  that  it  can  be  sold  to 
the  butcher.  All  hopes  are  centred  in  the  father 
of  the  family,  who  is  to  sell  the  carcase  in  the  town ; 
but  he  spends  the  money  and  returns  home  drunk. 
As  a  last  resort,  his  son  Eelke  enlists  in  the  army 
for  six  years*  colonial  service,  leaving  Sytske,  the 
girl  he  was  about  to  marry.  His  advance  pay  buys 
fuel  and  food,  but  the  lovers  part  with  a  hopeless 
quarrel,  and  the  old  peasants  are  left  wrangling  over 
the  money  he  has  brought. 

Allerseelen  (1906)  is  a  later  work.  A  village  pas- 
tor finds  a  woman  in  a  state  of  collapse  upon  his 
threshold.  He  takes  her  in,  and  she  gives  birth  to 
a  child.  She  is  a  stranger  in  the  district,  Rita  by 
name.  The  child  is  sent  into  the  village  to  be  nursed, 


HERMAN  HEIJERMANS  11 

while  the  pastor  gives  up  his  own  room  to  the  mother. 
She  recovers  slowly,  and  meanwhile  the  peasants  set 
their  tongues  to  work  upon  the  scandal.  The  child 
is  discovered  to  be  illegitimate.  A  good  village 
housewife  is  suckling  a  bastard.  The  pastor  is  hous- 
ing an  outcast,  and  shows  no  sign  of  sending  her 
about  her  business.  The  neighbouring  clergy  are 
perturbed.  Dimly  and  distantly  the  Bishop  is  said 
to  be  considering  the  facts.  .  .  .  Amid  alarums 
and  excursions  the  affair  pursues  its  course.  The 
village  passes  from  astonishment  to  ribaldry,  from 
ribaldry  to  stone-throwing.  The  pastor  speaks 
gently  of  Christian  charity  and  souls  to  be  saved, 
but  fails  to  appease  his  parishioners.  They  are  hot 
upon  the  scent  in  a  heresy-hunt.  If  they  could  see 
within  the  parsonage  walls,  they  would  yelp  still 
louder.  For  Rita  proves  to  be  an  unblushing  hedon- 
ist. No  prayers  for  her,  when  the  birth-pangs  are 
once  over ;  no  tears,  no  repentance.  She  sings  gaily 
in  her  room  while  the  pastors  argue  about  duty  and 
morals.  She  feels  " heavenly.*'  She  invades  the 
study  to  enjoy  a  view  of  sunlight,  clouds  and  sea. 
She  finds  the  waves  more  musical  than  the  wheezing 
of  the  church  organ.  If  only  the  child  were  with 
her,  her  happiness  would  be  complete. 

But  the  child  is  neglected  by  its  foster  mother. 
It  sickens  and  dies.  The  pastor  is  driven  from  his 
church  by  the  Bishop,  and  leaves  the  broken  windows 
of  the  parsonage  to  his  successor.  Rita  and  he  are 
both  homeless  now.  And  then  the  child's  father 
comes, — another  hedonist.  The  child  is  dead,  but 
Life  remains.  Its  body  lies  in  unconsecrated  ground, 
but  the  vows  of  love  are  renewed  at  the  graveside. 
The  Church  can  only  crush  its  own  slaves.  All  roads 
are  open  to  the  spirits  of  the  free.  The  pastor  can 


12  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS 

only  offer  a  hopeless  * '  Farewell ' '  as  the  two  set  out 
upon  their  way.  But  Rita  calls  after,  "No, — no! 
You  will  come  over  to  us. ' ' 

It  matters  nothing  that  this  gospel  of  Life  has 
often  been  preached.  Heijermans  has  caught  the 
spirit  of  it  as  well  as  the  letter.  His  characters  say 
and  do  nothing  particularly  original;  nothing  that 
would  even  pass  for  originality  by  reason  of  its  man- 
ner. He  works  in  vivid  contrasts,  without  a  shade 
of  paradox.  He  figures  the  opposed  forces  of  Reac- 
tion and  Revolution  in  religion,  in  statecraft,  in 
economics,  in  all  human  relationships,  with  a  sim- 
plicity of  mind  which  would  draw  a  smile  from  the 
forever  up-to-date  "intellectual."  Reaction  is  a 
devilish  superstition;  Revolution  a  prophetic  angel 
pointing  the  way  to  the  promised  land.  The  oqe  is 
false,  the  other  true.  There  is  no  disputing  the  point, 
since  truth  and  falsehood  are  absolute  terms.  Per- 
haps the  secret  is  that  Heijermans  never  tires  of  his 
own  philosophy.  He  is  content  to  see  it  firmly 
planted  on  the  ground;  he  does  not  demand  that  it 
should  walk  the  tight-rope  or  turn  somersaults  as 
an  intellectual  exercise.  He  has  accepted  a  view  of 
life  which  some  call  materialistic,  and  others  posi- 
tivist,  or  scientific,  or  humanitarian;  but  for  him  it 
is  simply  humane, — founded  upon  social  justice  and 
human  need. 

A  philosophy,  however,  does  not  make  a  dramatist. 
In  the  plays  I  have  already  described  Heijermans 
shows  his  power  of  translating  the  world-struggle 
of  thought  into  the  dramatic  clash  of  will,  but  it  is 
upon  "The  Good  Hope"  (Op  Hoop  van  Zegen)  that 
his  reputation  chiefly  depends.  He  chooses  a  great 
subject;  not  merely  the  conflict  of  shipowners  and 
fishermen  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  but  the  sea- 
faring life  and  the  ocean  itself.  Truly  "a  sea- 


13 

piece";  tempestuous,  powerful.  One  can  hear  the 
breaking  of  the  waves.  From  the  opening  scene, 
with  the  old  men's  tale  of  sharks,  to  the  night  of  the 
storm  in  the  third  act,  when  the  women  and  children 
huddle  in  Kneirtje's  cottage  for  shelter,  the  story  is 
always  the  same.  The  sea  is  the  symbol  of  Fate. 
It  takes  a  father  here,  a  brother  there.  It  seizes 
Geert  and  Barend  alike ;  the  one  going  aboard  care- 
lessly, the  other  screaming  resistance.  Sometimes  it 
plays  with  its  victims  on  shore,  making  no  sign,  leav- 
ing months  of  hope  to  end  in  despair.  In  a  more 
merciful  mood  it  sends  children  running  through  the 
village  to  cry  ' '  Jn  Ball  op !  'n  Ball  op ! "  as  an  over- 
due ship  is  signalled  from  the  coastguard  tower. 
And  there  an  echo  of  the  sea-ballad  now  and  again ; 
when  raps  are  heard  upon  the  door  at  the  height  of 
the  storm,  or  a  flapping  curtain  blows  out  the  lamp, 
or  a  pallid  face  is  seen  at  the  window.  .  .  . 

In  sheer  force  of  theatrical  construction  "The 
Good  Hope"  is  still  more  striking.  There  are  great 
moments,  finely  conceived.  The  play  is  full  of  nat- 
ural rather  than  violent  coincidence.  Barend  has 
always  feared  death  by  drowning,  and  he  makes  his 
first  and  last  voyage  in  a  leaky  trawler.  His  father 
sank  in  a  wreck,  and  it  is  his  mother,  unable  to  main- 
tain the  household,  who  persuades  him  to  go.  She 
fears  the  disgrace  of  his  refusal  after  the  papers  are 
signed,  but  he  is  dragged  aboard  by  the  harbour 
police.  His  brother  Geert  sets  out  proudly  enough, 
singing  the  Marseillaise  and  preaching  rebellion; 
but  he  sinks  far  away,  impotent,  unheard,  and  leaves 
his  sweetheart  to  bear  a  fatherless  child.  Old  Cobus 
can  only  reflect,  "We  take  the  fishes,  and  God  takes 
us."  That  is  perhaps  the  most  dramatic  thread  of 
all, — the  parallel  of  fate.  The  struggle  for  existence 
on  land  drives  men  to  the  fishing-boats  and  the 


14  HERMAN  HEIJERMANS 

Dogger  Bank.  From  the  minnows  to  leviathan, 
there  is  no  escape.  "We  take  the  fishes,  and  God 
takes  us."  A  gale  of  wind  and  rain  whistles  through 
the  play,  sweeping  the  decks  of  life,  tossing  men  out 
into  the  unknown. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  social  standpoint.  The  ship- 
owner, Bos,  is  frankly  a  villain.  He  knows  "The 
Good  Hope"  is  unsea worthy,  but  he  allows  her  to 
sail.  True,  the  warning  comes  from  a  drunken 
ship's  carpenter,  but  he  understands  the  risks.  Busi- 
ness is  business.  The  ship  is  well  insured.  .  .  . 

It  is  implied,  then,  that  shipowners  are  unscrupu- 
lous scoundrels,  and  fishermen  their  unhappy  vic- 
tims. Here  is  a  bias  which  makes  the  actual  tragedy 
no  more  impressive.  Good  ships,  as  well  as  bad, 
may  perish  in  a  storm.  Nature  is  cruel  enough  with- 
out the  help  of  man.  The  problem  of  the  big  fish 
and  the  little  fish  is  one  of  size,  not  of  morality. 
Even  sharks  may  possibly  rejoice  in  an  amiable 
temperament.  It  can  only  be  said  that  Heijermans 
has  here  chosen  the  right  motive  for  his  own  par- 
ticular type  of  drama.  His  sympathy  is  with  the 
fishermen.  He  knows  that,  humanly  speaking,  in 
every  conflict  between  employers  and  employed,  the 
men  are  right  and  the  masters  wrong.  Impossible 
to  redress  the  balance  by  individual  virtue  or  kindli- 
ness. The  masters  stand  for  the  exploiting  system ; 
for  capital,  for  insurance,  for  power,  for  law  and 
order  and  possession.  Their  risks  are  less  and  their 
temptations  greater.  Even  from  the  standpoint  of 
abstract  justice,  a  dishonest  employer  may  fairly  be 
set  against  a  drunken  labourer  or  a  gaol-bird  fisher- 
man. The  one  is  no  less  natural  than  the  other. 
But  Heijermans  goes  beyond  all  finicking  considera- 
tions of  this  sort.  He  seeks  to  destroy  and  rebuild, 
not  to  repair  or  adjust.  He  avoids  mere  naturalism ; 


HERMAN  HEIJERMANS  15 

the  "  conscientious  transcription  of  all  the  visible 
and  repetition  of  all  the  audible"  is  not  for  him. 
And  here  he  is  undoubtedly  justified,  not  only  by  his 
own  experience,  but  by  that  of  other  dramatists. 
There  was  no  inspiration  in  the  movement  towards 
mere  actuality  on  the  stage.  It  sickened  of  its  own 
surfeit  of  "life."  Its  accumulated  squalor  became 
intolerable.  It  was  choked  by  its  own  irrelevance, 
circumscribed  by  its  own  narrowness.  For  natural- 
ism is  like  a  prison  courtyard;  it  offers  only  two 
ways  of  escape.  One  is  the  poet's  upward  flight,  the 
other  the  revolutionist's  battering-ram.  Heijermans 
has  chosen  his  own  weapon,  and  used  it  well.  He 
has  given  us  * '  The  Good  Hope, ' '  not  as  a  mere  pitiful 
study  in  disillusionment,  but  as  a  tragic  symbol  of 
human  effort  in  the  conquest  of  despair. 

ASHLEY  DUKES. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE. 

A  Drama  of  the  Sea  in  Four  Acts. 

By  Herman  Heijermans,  Jr. 
Translated  by  Harriet  Gampert  Higgins. 

PERSONS. 

KNEIBTJE,  a  fisherman's  widow. 

GEERT     "1 

-r,  r  her  sons. 

BABEND  J 

Jo,  her  niece. 

COBUS,  her  brother. 

DAANTJE,  from  the  Old  Men's  Home. 

CLEMENS  Bos,  a  ship  owner. 

CLEMENTINE,  his  daughter. 

MATHILDE,  his  wife. 

SIMON,  a  ship  carpenter's  assistant. 

MABIETJE,  his  daughter. 

MEES,  MABIETJE'S  betrothed. 

KAPS,  a  bookkeeper. 

SAABT,  a  fisherman's  widow. 

TBUUS,  a  fisherman's  wife. 

JELLE,  a  beggar. 

FIBST  POLICEMAN. 

SECOND  POLICEMAN. 

The  Drama  is  laid  in  a  North  Sea  fishing  village. 

Copyright  1912  by  The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company. 


16 


THE  GOOD  HOPE 

A  Drama  of  the  Sea  in  Four  Acts. 

By  Herman  Heijermans,  Jr. 

ACT  I. 

[KNEIRTJE'S  home,  a  poor  living-room.  At  the  left, 
two  wall  bedsteads  and  a  door;  to  the  right,  against 
the  wall,  a  chest  of  drawers  with  holy  images,  vases 
and  photographs.  A  chimney  fireplace  nearer  front. 
At  the  back  wall,  near  right  corner,  a  wicket  leading 
to  the  cooking  shed;  at  left  against  the  wall  a  cup- 
board; a  cage  with  dove;  window  with  flower  pots, 
left  of  center;  in  back  wall  right  of  center  a  door 
overlooking  a  narrow  cobblestone  roadway  backed 
by  a  vieiv  of  beach  with  sea  in  middle  distance  and 
horizon.  Through  the  window  to  the  left  is  seen  the 
red  tiled  lower  corner  of  roof  of  a  cottage.  Time, 
noon.} 

CLEMENTINE.  [Sketch  book  on  her  knee.]  Now, 
then !  Cobus ! 

COBUS.  [Who  poses,  awakes  with  a  start,  smiles.] 
He-he-he!  I  wasn't  asleep —  No,  no — 

CLEM.  Head  this  way — still  more — what  ails  you 
now?  You  were  sitting  so  natural.  Hand  on  the 
knee  again. 

COBUS.  Tja — when  you  sit  still  so  long — you  get 
stiff. 

CLEM.  [Impatiently.]  Please !  please !  stop  chew- 
ing. 

COB.    I  haven't  any  chew.    Look, 

17 


18  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

CLEM.    Then  keep  your  mouth  shut. 

DAANTJE.  [Entering  by  the  cooking  shed.]  Good 
day. 

CLEM.    Good  day.   Take  a  walk  around  the  corner. 

DAAN.  No,  Miss — time's  up.  [Looking  at  sketch.] 
It  don't  look  like  him  yet. 

CLEM.     [Smiling.] 

DAAN.  [Shifting  his  spectacles.]  You  see — if  I 
may  take  the  liberty,  Miss — his  chin  sets  different — 
and  his  eyes  don't  suit  me — but  his  nose — that's  him 
— and — and — his  necktie,  that 's  mighty  natural — I  'd 
swear  to  that  anywhere. 

CLEM.    Indeed. 

DAAN.  And  the  bedstead  with  the  curtains — that's 
fine.  Now,  Miss,  don 't  you  think  you  could  use  me  ! 

CLEM.  Perhaps.  Hand  higher — keep  your  mouth 
still. 

COB.  That's  easy  said — but  when  y'r  used  to 
chewing  and  ain't  allowed  to — then  you  can't  hold 
your  lips  still — what  do  you  say,  Daantje? 

DAAN.  I  say  time's  up.  We  eat  at  four  and  the 
matron  is  strict. 

CLEM.  That  will  be  necessary  with  you  old  fel- 
lows. 

DAAN.  Peh !  We've  a  lot  to  bring  in,  haven't  we? 
'An  Old  Man's  Home  is  a  jail — scoldings  with  your 
feed — as  if  y'r  a  beggar.  Coffee  this  morning  like 
the  bottom  of  the  rain  barrel — and  peas  as  hard  as 
y'r  corns. 

CLEM.  If  I  were  in  your  place — keep  your  mouth 
still — I'd  thank  God  my  old  age  was  provided  for. 

COB.  Tja  —  tja  —  I  don't  want  to  blaspheme, 
but— 

DAAN.  Thank  GodT —  Not  me — sailed  from  my 
tenth  year — voyages — more  than  you  could  count — 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  19 

suffered  shipwreck — starvation — lost  two  sons  at  sea 
— no — no.  I  say  the  matron  is  a  beast — I'd  like  to 
slap  her  jaw. 

CLEM.    That  will  do !    This  is  no  dive. 

DAAN.  I  know  that,  but  it  makes  your  gorge  rise. 
I  wasn't  allowed  to  go  out  last  week  because,  beg- 
ging your  pardon,  I  missed  and  spat  beside  the  sand 
box.  Now  I  ask,  would  you  spit  beside  a  box  on  pur- 
pose? An  old  man's  home  is  a  jail — and  when 
they've  shut  you  up,  in  one  of  them,  decent,  they're 
rid  of  you.  Wish  the  sharks  had  eaten  me  before  I 
quit  sailing. 

COB.  [Giggling.]  He!  he!  he!  Man,  the  sharks 
wouldn't  eat  you — you  were  too  tough  for  them. 

CLEM.    Keep  your  lips  still ! 

COB.    Tja,  tja. 

DAAN.  Sharks  not  like  me —  They'll  swallow  a 
corpse.  Peh!  I  saw  old  Willem  bitten  in  two  till 
the  blood  spouted  on  high.  And  he  was  a  thin  man. 

CLEM.    Was  old  Willem  eaten  by  a  shark? 

DAAN.  By  one?  By  six.  Quick  as  he  fell  over- 
board they  grabbed  him.  The  water  was  red. 

CLEM.  Hey!  How  frightful.  And  yet —  I'd 
rather  like  to  see  a  thing  like  that. 

DAAN.    Like  to  see  it!    We  had  to. 

CLEM.    Did  he  scream? 

DAAN.    Did  he  scream! 

COB.  Tja,  wouldn't  you  if  you  felt  the  teeth  in 
your  flesh  ?  He — hehe ! 

[Sound  of  a  fiddle  is  heard  outside.  COBUS  sways 
in  his  chair  in  time  to  the  tune.]  Ta  da  da  de — da 
da  da — 

CLEM.  [Hastily  closing  the  sketch  book.]  There 
then!  [Rises.]  Tomorrow  you  sit  still — You  hear! 

COB.     [Stretching  himself.]     All  stiff!     [Dancest 


20  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

snapping  his  fingers,  his  knees  wabbling.]  Ta  de 
da  da — da-da-da. 

DAAN.    [At  the  window.]    Psst!  Nobody  home. 

JELLE.  [Playing  at  window  outside.]  If  you 
please. 

DAAN.   Nobody  home. 

JELLE.    I  come  regular  once  a  week. 

DAAN.    They  have  gone  to  the  harbor. 

CLEM.  [Throws  a  coin  out  of  the  window.]  There ! 
[Playing  stops.] 

JELLE.     Thank  you.     [Searches  for  the  coin.] 

COB.    Behind  that  stone,  stupid. 

DAAN.    No;  more  that  way. 

CLEM.  I  threw  it  out  that  way.  Hey!  what  a 
donkey !  Is  he  near-sighted  ? 

COB.  He's  got  only  half  an  eye — and  with  half 
an  eye  you  don't  see  much.  [To  JELLE.]  Behind 
you! 

JELLE.    I  don't  see  anything. 

DAAN.  [BABEND  appears  at  door.]  Psst!  Hey! 
Barend,  you  help  him 

CLEM.    There  is  a  ten-cent  piece  out  there. 

BABEND.  [Basket  of  driftwood  on  his  back.]  Give 
it  to  'im  in  his  paws  then.  [Enters.]  [Throws 
down  basket  with  a  thud.]  Here! 

COB.    Did  you  hear  that  impudent  boy? 

CLEM.  Say  there,  big  ape,  were  you  speaking 
to  me? 

BAR.  [Shy  and  embarrassed.]  No,  Miss.  I  did 
not  know  you  were  there,  I  thought 

COB.  What  right  had  you  to  think — better  be 
thinking  of  going  to  sea  again  to  earn  your  Mother 's 
bread. 

BAB.    That's  none  of  your  business. 

COB.  Just  hear  his  insolence  to  me — when  he's 
too  bashful  to  open  his  mouth  to  others.  [Taunt- 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  21' 

ing.]  I'm  not  afraid — lie-lie-he! — No,  I  don't  get 
the  belly  ache  when  I  must  go  to  sea — he-he-he ! 

DAAN.    Come  along  now.    It's  struck  four. 

CLEM.   Ten  o'clock  tomorrow,  Cobus. 

DAAN.  He  can't  do  it,  Miss,  we  must  pull  weeds 
in  the  court  yard. 

COB.    Yes,  we  must  scratch  the  stones. 

CLEM.    Tomorrow  afternoon,  then. 

COB.  Tja!  I'll  be  here,  then.  Good  day,  Miss. 
[To  B ABEND.]  Good  day,  pudding  breeches. 

CLEM.  [Pinning  on  her  hat.]  He  teases  you, 
doesn't  he? 

BAR.     [Laughing  bashfully.]     Yes,  Miss. 

CLEM.  Been  out  searching  the  beach  I  [He  nods 
embarrassed.]  Found  much! 

BAR.  No,  it  was  ebb  last  night — and — and — [Gets 
stuck.] 

CLEM.  Are  you  really  afraid  to  go  to  sea,  silly 
boy?  [He  nods,  laughing.]  They  all  go. 

BAB.     [Dully.]    Yes,  they  all  go. 

CLEM.    A  man  must  not  be  afraid 

BAB.    No,  a  man  must  not  be  afraid. 

CLEM.    Well,  then? 

BAB.     [Timidly.]     I'd  rather  stay  on  shore. 

CLEM.    I  won 't  force  you  to  go — How  old  are  you  ? 

BAB.    Rejected  for  the  army  last  month. 

CLEM.    Rejected? 

BAB.  For  my — for  my — I  don't  know  why,  but  I 
was  rejected. 

CLEM.  [Laughing.]  That's  lucky — A  soldier 
that's  afraid! 

BAB.  [Flaring  up  quickly.]  I'm  not  afraid  on 
land — let  them  come  at  me — I'll  soon  stick  a  knife 
through  their  ribs! 

CLEM.    Fine ! 

BAR.    [Again  lapsing  into  embarrassment.]    Beg 


22  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

pardon,  Miss.  [The  soft  tooting  of  a  steamboat 
whistle  is  heard.]  That's  the  Anna — there's  a  corpse 
on  board 

CLEM.    Another  one  dead? 

BAB.    The  flag  hung  half-mast. 

CLEM.  Tu-tu-tu-tu — The  second  this  week.  First, 
the  Agatha  Maria 

BAB.    No,  'twas  the  Charlotte. 

CLEM.  Oh,  yes !  The  Agatha  was  last  week — Do 
they  know  who?  [He  shakes  his  head.]  Haven't 
you  any  curiosity? 

BAB.  Ach — you  get  used  to  it — and  none  of  our 
family  are  aboard.  [Embarrassed  silence.]  Father 
can't — Hendrick  can't — Josef  can't — you  know  about 
them — and — and — Geert — he's  still  under  arrest. 

CLEM.    Yes,  he's  brought  disgrace  on  all  of  you. 

BAB.    Disgrace — disgrace 

CLEM.    When  is  he  free? 

BAB.    I  don't  know. 

CLEM.    You  don't  know? 

BAB.  They  gave  him  six  months — but  they  de- 
duct the  time  before  trial — we  don't  know  how  long 
that  was,  so  we  can't  tell. 

KNEIBTJE.  [Through  the  window.]]  Good  day, 
Miss. 

CLEM.    Good  day. 

KNEIB.  How  did  the  chickens  get  out?  Do  look 
at  that  rooster !  Get  out,  you  salamander !  Kischt ! 
Jo!  Jo! 

BAB.    Let  them  alone.    They'll  go  of  themselves. 

KNEIB.  [Entering  the  room.]  That's  an  endless 
devilment,  Miss.  [To  B  ABEND.]  Come,  you,  stick 
out  your  paws.  Must  we  have  another  row  with  Ari? 

BAB.  Then  we'll  have  a  row.  [Goes  off  indiffer- 
ently, chases  away  the  chickens,  outside.] 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  23 

KNBIB.  Then  we'll — such  a  lazy  boy,  I  wish  he'd 
never  been  born — Sponger ! — Are  you  going  so  soon, 
Miss? 

CLEM.  I  am  curious  to  know  what's  happened 
on  the  Anna. 

KNEIB.  Yes — I  was  on  the  way  there — but  it  takes 
so  long — and  I've  had  my  fill  of  waiting  on  the  pier — 
if  that  pier  could  only  talk.  Have  you  finished  my 
brother's  portrait? 

CLEM.  Tomorrow.  I  want  to  make  a  drawing 
of  Barend  also — just  as  he  came  in  with  the  basket 
on  his  shoulders. 

KNEIB.    Barend  f    Well — All  the  same  to  me. 

CLEM.  He  doesn't  seem  to  get  much  petting 
around  here. 

KNEIB.  [Annoyed.}  Pet  him!  I  should  say  not! 
The  sooner  I  get  rid  of  him,  the  better!  [Through 
the  window.]  Chase  them  away !  Kischt !  Kischt ! 

BAB.  [Outside.]  All  that  yelling  makes  the  rooster 
afraid. 

KNEIB.    Afraid !  He  takes  after  you,  then !  Kischt ! 

CLEM.  Hahaha!  Hahaha!  Say,  he's  enjoying 
himself  there  on  Ari's  roof. 

Jo.  [Coming  through  the  door  at  left.  Brown 
apron — gold  head  pieces  on  the  black  band  around 
her  head.]  Good  day. 

KNEIB.  The  chickens  are  out  again !  The  rooster 
is  sitting  on  Ari's  roof. 

Jo.  [Laughing  merrily.]  Hahaha!  He 'snot  go- 
ing to  lay  eggs  there ! 

KNEIB.  [Crossly.]  Hear  her  talk!  She  knows 
well  enough  we  almost  came  to  blows  with  Ari  be- 
cause the  hens  walked  in  his  potato  patch. 

Jo.  I  let  them  out  myself,  old  cross  patch — Truus 
dug  their  potatoes  yesterday. 


24  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KNEIR.    Why  didn't  you  say  so  then? 

Jo.  What  am  I  doing  now  ?  Oh,  Miss — she  would 
die  if  she  couldn't  grumble;  she  even  keeps  it  up  in 
her  sleep.  Last  night  she  swore  out  loud  in  her 
dreams.  Hahaha !  Never  mind !  scold  all  you  like ; 
you're  a  good  old  mother  just  the  same.  [To  BAREND, 
who  enters  the  room.]  Ach,  you  poor  thing!  Is  the 
rooster  setting  on  the  roof?  And  does  he  refuse 
to  come  down? 

BAR.    You  quit  that  now! 

Jo.  I'll  wager  if  you  pet  the  hens  he  will  come 
down  of  himself  from  jealousy.  Hahaha !  He  looks 
pale  with  fear. 

CLEM.    Now,  now. 

Jo.  Say,  Aunt,  you  should  make  a  baker  of  him. 
His  little  bare  feet  in  the  rye  flour.  Hahaha! 

BAB.    You  can  all [Goes  angrily  off  at  left.] 

Jo.     [Calling  after  him.']    The  poor  little  fellow ! 

CLEM.  Now,  stop  teasing  him.  Are  you  digging 
potatoes  ? 

Jo.  Tja;  since  four  o'clock  this  morning.  Noth- 
ing— Aunt — all  rotten. 

KNEIR.  We  poor  people  are  surely  cursed — rain 
— rain — the  crops  had  to  rot — they  couldn  't  be  saved 
— and  so  we  go  into  the  winter — the  cruel  winter — 
Ach, — Ach, — Ach ! 

Jo.  There!  You're  worrying  again.  Come, 
Mother,  laugh.  Am  I  ever  sad?  Geert  may  return 
at  any  moment. 

KNEIR.    Geert — and  what  then? 

Jo.  What  then?  Then — then — then,  nothing! 
Cheer  up!  You  don't  add  to  your  potatoes  by  fret- 
ting and  grumbling.  I  have  to  talk  like  this  all 
day  to  keep  up  her  spirits — See,  I  caught  a  rabbit ! 

CLEM.    In  a  trap? 

Jo.    As  neat  as  you  please.   The  rascal  was  living 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  25 

on  our  poverty — the  trap  went  snap  as  I  was  dig- 
ging.   A  fat  one — forty  cents  at  the  least. 

CLEM.    That  came  easy — I  must  go  now. 

Bos.  {At  door.}  Hello!  Are  you  going  to  stay 
all  day — May  I  come  in  f 

KNEIR.  [Friendly  manner.}  Of  course  you  may, 
Meneer;  come  in,  Meneer. 

Bos.    My  paws  are  dirty,  children. 

KNEIR.  That 's  nothing.  A  little  dry  sand  doesn't 
matter — will  you  sit  down? 

Bos.  Glad  to  do  so — Yes,  Kneir,  my  girl,  we're 
getting  older  every  day — Good  day,  little  niece. 

Jo.  Good  day,  Meneer.  [Points,  laughing,  to  her 
hands.}  You  see 

Bos.    Have  you  put  on  gloves  for  the  dance? 

Jo.  [Nods  saucily.}  The  hornpipe  and  the  High- 
land fling,  hey? 

Bos.  Hahaha!  Saucy  black  eye.  [To  CLEMEN- 
TIKE.]  Come,  let  me  have  a  look. 

CLEM.  [Petulantly.}  No,  you  don't  understand 
it,  anyway. 

Bos.  Oh,  thanks ! — You  educate  a  daughter.  Have 
her  take  drawing  lessons,  but  must  not  ask  to  see — 
come !  Don 't  be  so  childish  I 

CLEM.  [With  spoiled  petulance.}  No.  When  it 
is  finished. 

Bos.    Just  one  look. 

CLEM.  Hey,  Pa,  don't  bother  me. 

Bos.    Another  scolding,  ha  ha  ha! 

[BAREND  enters.} 

BAR.     [Bashfully.}    Good  day,  Meneer. 

Bos.  Well,  Barend,  you  come  as  if  you  were 
called. 

BAR.     [Surprised  laugh.}     I? 

Bos.    We  need  you,  my  boy. 

BAR.    Yes,  Meneer. 


26  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Bos.    The  deuce!    How  you  have  grown. 

BAB.    Yes,  Meneer. 

Bos.  You're  quite  a  man,  now — How  long  have 
you  been  out  of  a  job? 

BAB.     [Shyly.]     Nine  months. 

KNEIB.    That's  a  lie — It's  more  than  a  year. 

BAB,    No,  it  isn't. 

Jo.    Well,  just  count  up — November,  December — 

Bos.  That'll  do,  children.  No  quarreling.  Life 
is  too  short.  Well,  Barend,  how  would  the  forty- 
seven  suit  you? — Eh,  what? 

BAB.     [Anxiously.]     The  forty-seven 

Bos.    The  Good  Hope 

CLEM.  [Surprised.]  Are  you  going  to  send  out 
the  Good  Hope  ? 

Bos.  [Sharply.]  You  keep  out  of  this !  Keep  out, 
I  say! 

CLEM.    And  this  morning 

Bos.     [Angrily.]     Clementine! 

CLEM.    But  Pa 

Bos.  [Angrily  stamping  his  foot.]  Will  you 
please  go  on? 

CLEM.  [Shrugging  her  shoulders.]  Hey!  How 
contemptible,  to  get  mad  —  how  small — Bon  jour! 
[Exits.] 

KNEIB.    Good  day,  Miss. 

Bos.  [Smiling.]  A  cat,  eh!  Just  like  her  Mama, 
I  have  to  raise  the  devil  now  and  then, — hahaha! — 
or  my  wife  and  daughter  would  run  the  business — 
and  I  would  be  in  the  kitchen  peeling  the  potatoes, 
hahaha!  Not  but  what  I've  done  it  in  my  youth. 

KNEIB.    And  don't  I  remember 

Bos.  [Smacking  his  lips.]  Potatoes  and  fresh 
herring!  but  what's  past  is  gone.  With  a  fleet  of 
eight  luggers  your  mind  is  on  other  things — 
[Smiling.]  Even  if  I  do  like  the  sight  of  saucy  black 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  27 

eyes — Don't  mind  me,  I'm  not  dangerous — there  was 
a  time. Hahaha ! 

KNEIB.    Go  on,  Meneer.    Don't  mind  us. 

Bos.  Well,  our  little  friend  here,  what  does  he 
say? 

KNEIB.    Open  your  mouth,  speak ! 

BAB.    I  would  rather 

KNEIB.     [Angrily.}     Bather — rather! 

Jo.    Hey!    What  a  stupid! 

Bos.  Children!  No  quarreling.  Boy,  you  must 
decide  for  yourself.  Last  year  at  the  herring  catch 
the  Good  Hope  made  the  sum  of  fourteen  hundred 
guilders  in  four  trips.  She  is  fully  equipped,  Hengst 
is  skipper — all  the  sailors  but  one — and  the  boys — 
Hengst  spoke  of  you  for  oldest  boy. 

BAB.     {Nervously.}     No,  no,  Meneer 

KNEIB.  Ah,  the  obstinate  beast !  All  my  beating 
won't  drive  him  aboard. 

Jo.    If  I  were  a  man 

Bos.  Yes,  but  you're  not;  you're  a  pretty  girl — 
ha,  ha,  ha !  We  can 't  use  such  sailors.  Well,  Daddy ! 
And  why  don't  you  want  to  go?  Afraid  of  seasick- 
ness? You've  already  made  one  trip  as  middle 
boy 

KNEIB.    And  as  play  boy. 

Jo.  He'd  rather  loaf  and  beg.  Ah!  what  a  big 
baby. 

Bos.  You  are  foolish,  boy.  I  sailed  with  your 
grandfather.  Yes,  I,  too,  would  rather  have  sat  by 
Mother's  pap-pot  than  held  eels  with  my  ice  cold 
hands ;  rather  bitten  into  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter 
than  bitten  off  the  heads  of  the  bait.  And  your 
father 

BAB.  [Hoarsely.']  My  father  was  drowned — 
and  brother  Hendrick — and  Josef — no,  I  won't  go! 

Bos.     [Rising.]     Well — if  he  feels  that  way — bet- 


28  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

ter  not  force  him,  Mother  Kneirtje;  I  understand 
how  he  feels,  my  father  didn  't  die  in  his  bed,  either — 
but  if  you  begin  to  reason  that  way  the  whole  fishery 
goes  up  the  spout. 

KNEIR.     [Angrily.}     It's  enough  to 

Bos.  Softly — softly — You  don't  catch  tipsy  her- 
rings with  force 

Jo.  [Laughing.]  Tipsy  herring,  I  would  like  to 
see  that ! 

Bos.  [Laughing.']  She  doesn't  believe  it,  Kneir ! 
We  know  better !  Eh,  what ! 

KNEIK.  Ach — it's  no  joking  matter,  Meneer,  that 
miserable  bad  boy  talks  as  if — as  if — I  had  forgotten 
my  husband — and  my  good  Josef — and — and — but  I 
have  not.  [Ends  in  low  sobbing.] 

Jo.  Come,  foolish  woman !  please,  Aunty  dear ! — 
Good-for-nothing  Torment ! 

Bos.  Don't  cry,  Kneir!  Tears  will  not  restore 
the  dead  to  life 

KNEIR.  No,  Meneer — I  know  that,  Meneer.  Next 
month  it  will  be  twelve  years  since  the  Clementine 
went  down. 

Bos.    Yes,  it  was  the  Clementine. 

KNEIR,  November — '88 — He  was  a  monkey  of 
seven  then,  and  yet  he  pretends  to  feel  more  than  I 
do  about  it. 

BAR.  [Nervously.]  I  didn't  say  that.  I  don't 
remember  my  father,  nor  my  brothers — but — but 

Bos.    Well,  then? 

BAR.  I  want  another  trade — I  don't  want  to  go 
to  sea — no — no 

KNEIR.  Another  trade — What  else  can  you  do? 
Can't  even  read  or  write 

BAR.    Is  that  my  fault? 

KNEIR.  No — it  is  mine,  of  course!  Three  years 
I  had  an  allowance — the  first  year  three — the  second 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  29 

two  twenty-five — and  the  third  one  dollar — the  other 
nine  I  had  to  root  around  for  myself. 

Bos.    Have  you  forgotten  me  entirely? 

KNEIE.  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  you,  Meneer. 
If  you  and  the  priest  hadn't  given  me  work  and  a 
warm  bite  now  and  then  to  take  home — then — then 
— and  that  booby  even  reproaches  me ! 

BAB.    I  don't  reproach — I — I 

Jo.  Out  with  it !  The  gentleman  is  looking  for  a 
place  to  live  off  his  income. 

BAB.  Shut  up! — I  will  do  anything — dig  sand — 
plant  broom — salting  down — I'll  be  a  mason,  or  a 
carpenter — or  errand  boy 

Jo.  Or  a  burgomaster !  Or  a  policeman !  Hahaha ! 
And  walk  about  dark  nights  to  catch  thieves — Oh! 
— Oh ! — what  a  brave  man ! 

Bos.    Little  vixen! 

BAB.  You  make  me  tired ! — Did  I  complain  when 
the  salt  ate  the  flesh  off  my  paws  so  I  couldn't  sleep 
nights  with  the  pain? 

KNEIB.  Wants  to  be  a  carpenter — the  boy  is  in- 
sane— A  mason — see  the  accidents  that  happen  to 
masons.  Each  trade  has  something. 

Bos.  Yes,  Barendje — There  are  risks  in  all  trades 
—my  boy.  Just  think  of  the  miners,  the  machinists, 
the  stokers — the — the — How  often  do  not  I,  even 
now,  climb  the  man  rope,  or  row  out  to  a  lugger? 
Fancies,  my  boy!  You  must  not  give  way  to 
them. 

KNEIB.  And  we  have  no  choice.  God  alone  knows 
what  the  winter  will  be.  All  the  potatoes  rotted  late 
this  fall,  Meneer. 

Bos.    Yes,  all  over  the  district.    Well,  boy? 

BAB.    No,  Meneer. 

KNEIB.  [Angrily, ,]  Get  out  of  my  house,  then — 
sponger ! 


30  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

BAB.     [Faintly.}     Yes,  Mother. 

KNEIB.    March!    Or  I'll [Threatening.] 

Bos.  Come,  come.  [A  pause  during  which  BA- 
BEND  walks  timidly  away.] 

Jo.    If  I  had  a  son  like  that 

Bos.    Better  get  a  lover  first 

Jo.  [Brightly.]  I've  already  got  one! — If  I  had 
a  son  like  that  I'd  bang  him  right  and  left!  Bah! 
A  man  that's  afraid!  [Lightly.]  A  sailor  never 
knows  that  sooner  or  later — He  never  thinks  of  that 
— If  Geert  were  that  way — there,  I  know — Aunt,  im- 
agine— Geert 

Bos.    Geert  I 

Jo.  He'd  face  the  devil — eh,  Aunt!  Now,  I'm 
going  to  finish  the  potatoes.  Good  bye,  Meneer. 

Bos.    Say,  black  eyes — do  you  laugh  all  the  time? 

Jo.  [With  burst  of  laughter.]  No,  I'm  going  to 
cry.  [Calls  back  from  the  opened  door.]  Aunt — 
speak  of  Geert.  [Goes  off.] 

Bos.    Geert? — Is  that  your  son,  who 

KNEIB.    Yes,  Meneer. 

Bos.    Six  months? 

KNEIB.    Yes,  Meneer. 

Bos,    Insubordination  ? 

KNEIB.  Yes,  Meneer — Couldn't  keep  his  hands  at 
home. 

Bos.    The  stupid  blockhead ! 

KNEIB.    I  think  they  must  have  teased  him 

Bos.  That's  nonsense !  They  don't  tease  the  ma- 
rines. A  fine  state  of  affairs.  Discipline  would 
be  thrown  overboard  to  the  sharks  if  sailors  could 
deal  out  blows  every  time  things  didn't  go  to  suit 
them. 

KNEIB.    That's  so,  Meneer,  but 

Bos.  And  is  she — smitten  with  that  good-for- 
nothing? 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  31 

KNEIB.  She 's  crazy  about  him,  and  well  she  may 
be.  He's  a  handsome  lad,  takes  after  his  father — 
and  strong — there  is  his  photograph — he  still  wore 
the  uniform  then — first  class — now  he  is 

Bos.    Degraded? 

KNEIB.  No,  discharged — when  he  gets  out.  He's 
been  to  India  twice — it  is  hard — if  he  comes  next 
week — or  in  two  weeks — or  tomorrow,  I  don't  know 
when — I'll  have  him  to  feed,  too — although — I  must 
say  it  of  him,  he  won't  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet — A  giant  like  him  can  always  find  a  skipper. 

Bos.  A  sweet  beast — I  tell  you  right  now,  Kneir, 
I'd  rather  not  take  him — dissatisfied  scoundrels  are 
plenty  enough  these  days — All  that  come  from  the 
Navy,  I'm  damned  if  it  isn't  so — are  unruly  and  I 
have  no  use  for  that  kind — Am  I  not  right? 

KNEIB.    Certainly,  Meneer,  but  my  boy 

Bos.  There  was  Jacob  —  crooked  Jacob,  the 
skipper  had  to  discharge  him.  He  was,  God  save 
him,  dissatisfied  with  everything — claimed  that  I 
cheated  at  the  count — yes — yes — insane.  Now  he's 
trying  it  at  Maasluis.  We  don't  stand  for  any  non- 
sense. 

KNEIB.  May  I  send  him  to  the  skipper  then — or 
direct  to  the  water  bailiff's  office? 

Bos.    Yes,  but  you  tell  him 

KNEIB.    Yes,  Meneer. 

Bos.  If  he  comes  in  time,  he  can  go  out  on  the 
Good  Hope.  She's  just  off  the  docks.  They  are 
bringing  the  provisions  and  casks  aboard  now.  She'll 
come  back  with  a  full  cargo — You  know  that. 

KNEIB.     [Glad.]     Yes,  Meneer. 

Bos.  Well — Good  bye!  [Murmur  of  voices  out- 
side.] What's  that? 

KNEIB.  People  returning  from  the  harbor.  There 'a 
a  corpse  aboard  the  Anna. 


32  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Bos.  Pieterse's  steam  trawler — The  deuce!  Who 
is  it? 

KNEIR.    I  don't  know.    I'm  going  to  find  out. 

[Both  go  off — the  stage  remains  empty — a  vague 
murmur  of  voices  outside.  Fishermen,  in  conversa- 
tion, pass  the  window.  Sound  of  a  tolling  church 
bell.  GEERT  sneaks  inside  through  the  door  at  left. 
Throws  down  a  bundle  tied  in  a  red  handkerchief. 
Looks  cautiously  into  the  bedsteads,  the  cooking  shed, 
peers  through  the  window,  then  muttering  he  plumps 
down  in  a  chair  by  the  table,  rests  his  head  on  his 
hand,  rises  again;  savagely  takes  a  loaf  of  bread 
from  the  back  cupboard,  cuts  off  a  hunk.  Walks 
back  to  chair,  chewing,  lets  the  bread  fall;  wrathfully 
stares  before  him.  The  bell  ceases  to  toll.] 

BAB.  [From  the  cooking  shed.]  Who's  there? — 
Geert ! — [Entering.] 

GEERT.  [ Curtly. ]  Yes — it 's  me — Well,  why  don 't 
you  give  me  a  paw. 

BAR.  [Shaking  hands.]  Have  you — have  you  seen 
Mother  yet? 

GEERT.     [Curtly.]     No,  where  is  she 

BAR.    Mother,  she — she 

GEERT.    What  are  you  staring  at? 

BAR.    You — you — Have  you  been  sick? 

GEERT.     Sick?    I'm  never  sick. 

BAR.    You  look  so — so  pale 

GEERT.  Give  me  the  looking-glass.  I'll  be  damned. 
What  a  mug!  [Throws  the  mirror  roughly  down.] 

BAR.     [Anxiously.]     Was  it  bad  in  prison? 

GEERT.  No,  fine! — What  a  question — They  feed 
you  on  beefsteaks!  Is  there  any  gin  in  the  house? 

BAR.    No. 

GEERT.  Go  and  get  some  then — if  I  don't  have  a 
swallow,  I'll  keel  over. 

BAR.     [Embarrassed.]     I  haven't  any  money. 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  33 

GEERT.  I  have.  [Peers  in  his  pocket,  throws  a 
handful  of  coins  on  the  table.]  Earned  that  in  prison 
—There! 

BAB.    At  the  "Bed"  around  the  corner? 

GEEET.  I  don't  care  a  damn — so  you  hurry.  [Call- 
ing after  him.]  Is — is  Mother  well?  [A  pause.] 
— and  Jo  ? 

BAB.     [At  door.]     She  is  digging  potatoes. 

GEEBT.    Are  they  mad  at  me ! 

BAB.    Why? 

GEEBT.  Because  I — [Savagely.]  Don't  stare  so, 
stupid 

BAB.  [Embarrassed.]  I  can't  get  used  to  your 
face — it's  so  queer. 

GEEBT.  Queer  face,  eh !  I  must  grow  a  beard  at 
once! — Say,  did  they  make  a  devil  of  a  row? 
[Gruffly.'}  Well? 

BAB.    I  don't  know. 

GEEBT.  Go  to  the  devil!  You  don't  know  any- 
thing. 

[A  pause,  BABEND  slips  out.  Jo  enters,  a  dead 
rabbit  in  her  hand.] 

Jo.  Jesus !  [Lets  the  rabbit  fall.] — Geert !  [Rushes 
to  him,  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck,  sobbing  hys- 
terically."] 

GEEBT.  [In  a  muffled  voice.]  Stop  it !  Stop  your 
damned  bawling — stop! 

Jo.  [Continuing  to  sob.]  I  am  so  happy — so 
happy,  dear  Geert 

GEEBT.     [Irritated.]     Now!  Now! 

Jo.    I  can't  help  it.     [Sobs  harder.] 

GEEBT.  [Pulling  her  arms  from  his  neck.] — Now 
then!  My  head  can't  stand  such  a  lot  of  noise 

Jo.     [Startled.]     A  lot  of  noise? 

GEEBT.  [Grumbling.]  You  don't  understand  it 
of  course — six  months  solitary — in  a  dirty,  stinking 


34  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

cell.  [Puts  his  hand  before  his  eyes  as  if  blinded  by 
the  light.]  Drop  the  curtain  a  bit — This  sunshine 
drives  me  mad! 

Jo.    My  God — Geert 

GEEBT.    Please ! — that 's  better. 

Jo.    Your  beard 

GEERT.  They  didn't  like  my  beard — The  govern- 
ment took  that — become  ugly,  haven't  I? — Look  as 
if  I'd  lost  my  wits!  Eh? 

Jo.  [With  hesitating  laugh.]  You?  No — What 
makes  you  think  that?  You  don't  show  it  at  all. 
[Sobs  again  softly.] 

GEEBT.  Well,  damn  it!  Is  that  all  you  have  to 
say.  [She  laughs  hysterically.  He  points  to  his 
temples.]  Become  grey,  eh? 

Jo.    No,  Geert. 

GEERT.  You  lie.  [Kicking  away  the  mirror.]  I 
saw  it  myself.  The  beggars ;  to  shut  up  a  sailor  in 
a  cage  where  you  can't  walk,  where  you  can't  speak, 
where  you — [Strikes  wildly  upon  the  table  with  his 
fist.] 

BAB.    Here  is  the  gin. 

Jo.    The  gin? 

BAB.    For  Geert. 

GEERT.  Don't  you  meddle  with  this — Where  is  a 
glass? — Never  mind — [Swallows  eagerly.] — That's  a 
bracer !  What  time  is  it  ? 

BAB.    Half  past  four. 

Jo.    Did  you  take  bread?    Were  you  hungry? 

GEEBT.  Yes,  no — no,  yes.  I  don't  know.  [Puts 
the  bottle  again  to  his  lips.] 

Jo.    Please,  Geert — no  more — you  can't  stand  it. 

GEEBT.  No  more?  [Swallows.]  Ripping! — Ha- 
haha!  That's  the  best  way  to  tan  your  stomach. 
[Swallows.]  Kipping!  Don't  look  so  unhappy,  girl 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  35 

— I  won't  get  drunk!    Bah!    It  stinks!    Not  accus- 
tomed to  it — Are  there  any  provisions  on  board ! 

Jo.  Look — a  fat  one,  eh?  Trapped  him  myself. 
[Picks  up  the  rabbit.']  Not  dead  an  hour. 

GEERT.  That  will  do  for  tomorrow — Here,  you,  go 
and  lay  in  a  supply — some  ham  and  some  meat 

BAB.    Meat,  Geert? 

Jo.  No — that 's  extravagance — If  you  want  to  buy 
meat,  keep  your  money  till  Sunday. 

GEERT.  Sunday — Sunday — If  you  hadn't  eaten 
anything  for  six  months  but  rye  bread,  rats,  horse 
beans — I'm  too  weak  to  set  one  foot  before  the  other. 
Stop  your  talk — Hurry  up!  and — and  a  piece  of 
cheese — I  feel  like  eating  myself  into  a  colic.  Ha- 
haha !  Shall  I  take  another  wee  drop  ? 

[BAREND  goes  off.] 

Jo.    No. 

GEERT.  Good,  not  another  drop.  Is  there  any 
tobacco  ? 

Jo.  God! — I'm  glad  to  see  you  cheerful  again. 
tYes,  there 's  some  tobacco  left — in  the  jar. 

GEERT.    That 's  good.    Fine !   Is  that  my  old  pipe  ? 

Jo.    I  saved  it  for  you. 

GEERT.    Who  did  you  flirt  with,  while  I  sat 

Jo.     [Merrily.]     With  Uncle  Cobus ! 

GEERT.  You  women  are  all  trash.  [Fills  his  pipe; 
smokes.]  Haven't  had  the  taste  in  my  mouth  for 
half  a  year.  This  isn't  tobacco;  [Exhales.]  tastes 
like  hay — Bah !  The  gin  stinks  and  the  pipe  stinks. 

Jo.    Eat  something  first 

GEERT.  [Laying  down  the  pipe.]  Say,  do  you 
still  sleep  with  Mother! 

Jo.    Yes,  next  to  the  pig  stye. 

GEERT.  [Laughing.]  And  must  I  sleep  under  the 
roof  again! 


36  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Jo.    You'll  sleep  nice  and  warm  up  there,  dear. 

KNEIR.  [Outside.]  Why  is  the  window  curtain 
down! 

Jo.  [Finger  on  her  lips.]  Sst!  [Goes  and 
stands  before  GEERT.] 

KNEIR.  [Inside.]  What's  going  on  here?  Why 
is  the  looking-glass  on  the  floor?  Who  sits 

GEERT.     [Rising.]     Well,  little  old  one! 

KNEIR.    God  almighty! 

GEERT.    No — it's  me — Geert 

KNEIR.  [Dropping  into  a  chair.]  Oh! — Oh! — 
My  heart  beats  so ! 

GEERT.  Hahaha!  That's  damned  good!  [Tries 
to  embrace  her.] 

KNEIR.    No — no — not  yet — later. 

GEERT.    Not  yet? — Why  later? 

KNEIR.  [Reproachfully.]  You  —  what  have  you 
done  to  make  me  happy ! 

Jo.     [Coaxingly.]     Never  mind  that  now 

GEERT.  I've  got  enough  in  my  head  now.  If  you 
intend  to  reproach  me? — I  shall 

KNEIR.    You  shall 

GEERT.    Pack  my  bundle ! 

KNEIR.    And  this  is  his  home-coming ! 

GEERT.  Do  you  expect  me  to  sit  on  the  sinner's 
bench?  No,  thank  you. 

KNEIR.  [Anxious;  almost  crying.]  The  whole 
village  talked  about  you — I  couldn't  go  on  an  errand 
but 

GEERT.  [Curtly.]  Let  them  that  talk  say  it  to 
my  face.  I'm  no  thief  or  burglar. 

KNEIR.  No,  but  you  raised  your  hand  against 
your  superior. 

GEERT.  [Fiercely.]  I  should  have  twisted  my; 
fingers  in  his  throat. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  37 

KNEIR.    Boy — boy ;  you  make  us  all  unhappy. 

[Begins  to  sob.] 

GEERT.  [Stamping.]  Treated  like  a  beast,  then 
I  get  the  devil  besides.  [Grabs  his  bundle.]  I'm  in 
no  mood  to  stand  it.  [At  the  door,  hesitates,  throws 
down  his  bundle.]  Now!  [Lower  voice.]  Don't 
cry,  Mother — I  would  rather — Damn  it ! 

Jo.    Please — Auntie  dear 

KNEIR.  Your  father  lies  somewhere  in  the  sea. 
Never  would  he  have  looked  at  you  again — And  he 
also  had  a  great  deal  to  put  up  with. 

GEERT.  I'm  glad  I'm  different — not  so  submissive 
— It's  a  great  honor  to  let  them  walk  over  you! 
I  have  no  fish  blood  in  me — Now  then,  is  it  to  go  on 
raining? 

KNEIR.  [Embracing  him.]  If  you  would  only 
repent. 

GEERT.  [Flaring  up.]  I'd  knock  the  teeth  out 
of  his  jaw  tomorrow. 

KNEIR.    How  did  it  happen  ? 

Jo.  Hey !  Yes — tell  us  all  about  it.  Come,  now, 
sit  down  peaceably. 

GEERT.  I've  sat  long  enough,  hahaha! — Let  me 
walk  to  get  the  hang  of  it.  [Lighting  his  pipe  again.] 
Bah! 

Jo.     Stop  smoking  then,  donkey! 

GEERT.  Now  I'll — But  for  you  it  would  never 
have  happened 

Jo.  [Laughing.]  But  for  me? — that's  a  good 
one! 

GEERT.    I  warned  you  against  him. 

Jo.    Against  who — What  are  you  talking  about? 

GEERT.  That  cad — Don't  you  remember  dancing 
with  him  at  the  tavern  van  de  Eooie  ? 

Jo.    I!— Danced? 


38  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

GEERT.    The  night  before  we  sailed. 

Jo.  With  that  cross-eyed  quartermaster  ? — I  don 't 
understand  a  word  of  it — was  it  with  him? — And 
you  yourself  wanted  me  to 

GEERT.  You  can't  refuse  a  superior — On  board 
ship  he  had  stories.  I  overheard  him  tell  the  skipper 
that  he 

Jo.     [Angrily.]     What? 

GEERT.  That  he — never  mind  what — He  spoke  of 
you  as  if  you  were  any  sailor's  girl. 

Jo.    I ! — The  low  down 

GEERT.  When  he  came  into  the  hold  after  the  dog 
watch,  I  hammered  him  on  the  jaw  with  a  marlin 
spike.  Five  minutes  later  I  sat  in  irons.  Kept  in 
them  six  days — [Sarcastically.]  the  provost  was  full  ; 
then  two  weeks  provost;  six  months  solitary;  and 
suspended  from  the  navy  for  ten  years ;  that,  damn 
me,  is  the  most — I'd  chop  off  my  two  hands  to  get 
back  in ;  to  be  nigger-driven  again ;  cursed  as  a  beg- 
gar again ;  ruled  as  a  slave  again 

KNEIR.  Geert — Geert — Don't  speak  such  words. 
In  the  Bible  it  stands  written 

GEERT.  [Grimly.]  Stands  written — If  there  was 
only  something  written  for  us 

KNEIR.    Shame  on  you 

Jo.    Well,  wasn't  he  in  the  right? 

KNEIR.  If  he  had  gone  politely  to  the  Com- 
mander  

GEERT.  Hahaha !  You  should  have  been  a  sailor, 
Mother — Hahaha!  Politely?  They  were  too  glad 
of  the  chance  to  clip  and  shear  me.  While  I  was  in 
the  provost  they  found  newspapers  in  my  bag  I  was 
not  allowed  to  read — and  pamphlets  I  was  not  al- 
lowed to  read — that  shut  the  door — otherwise  they 
would  have  given  me  only  third  class 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  39 

KNEIB.  Newspapers  you  were  not  allowed  to  read  ? 
Then  why  did  you  read  them? 

GEEET.  Why — simple  soul — Ach ! — when  I  look  at 
your  submissive  face  I  see  no  way  to  tell  why — Why 
do  men  desert? — Why,  ten  days  before  this  hap- 
pened to  me,  did  Peter  the  stoker  cut  off  his  two 
fingers  ? — Just  for  a  joke  ?  No,  on  purpose !  I  can 't 
blame  you  people — you  knew  no  better — and  I  ad- 
mired the  uniform — But  now  that  I've  got  some 
brains  I  would  like  to  warn  every  boy  that  binds 
himself  for  fourteen  years  to  murder. 

KNEIB.  To  murder?  Boy,  don't  say  such  dread- 
ful things — you  are  excited 

GEEBT.  Excited?  No — not  at  all — worn  out,  in 
fact — in  Atjeh  I  fought  with  the  rest — stuck  my  bay- 
onet into  the  body  of  a  poor  devil  till  the  blood 
spurted  into  my  eyes — For  that  they  gave  me  the 
Atjeh  medal.  I  have  it  still  in  my  bundle.  Hand 
it  here.  [Jo  picks  up  the  bundle;  B  ABEND  looks  on.] 
Where  is  the  thing?  [Jerks  the  medal  from  his 
jacket,  throws  it  out  of  the  window.]  Away!  you 
have  dangled  on  my  breast  long  enough! 

KNEIB.  Geert!  Geert!  Who  has  made  you  like 
this !  I  no  longer  know  you 

GEEBT.  Who — who  took  an  innocent  boy,  that 
couldn't  count  ten,  and  kidnaped  him  for  fourteen 
years?  Who  drilled  and  trained  him  for  a  dog's 
life?  Who  put  him  in  irons  when  he  defended  his 
girl?  Irons — you  should  have  seen  me  walking  in 
them,  groaning  like  an  animal.  Near  me  walked 
another  animal  with  irons  on  his  leg,  because  of  an 
insolent  word  to  an  officer  of  the  watch.  Six  days 
with  the  damned  irons  on  your  claws  and  no  power 
to  break  them.  Six  days  lower  than  a  beast. 

Jo.  Don 't  talk  about  it  any  more,  you  are  still  so 
tired 


40  TEE  GOOD  HOPE 

GEEBT.  [Wrapped  in  the  grimness  of  his  story.] 
Then  the  provost,  that  stinking,  dark  cage ;  your  pig 
stye  is  a  palace  to  it.  A  cage  with  no  windows — 
no  air — a  cage  where  you  can't  stand  or  lie  down. 
A  cage  where  your  bread  and  water  is  flung  to  you 
with  a  "there,  dog,  eat!"  There  was  a  big  storm 
in  those  days, — two  sloops  were  battered  to  pieces ; — 
when  you  expected  to  go  to  the  bottom  any  mo- 
ment. Never  again  to  see  anyone  belongin'  to  me — 
neither  you — nor  you — nor  you.  To  go  down  in  that 
dark,  stinking  hole  with  no  one  to  talk  to — no  com- 
rade's hand! — No,  no,  let  me  talk — it  lightens  my 
chest !  Another  drop.  [Drinks  quickly.]  From  the 
provost  to  the  court  martial.  A  fellow  has  lots  to 
bring  in  there.  Your  mouth  shut.  Sit  up;  mouth 
shut  some  more.  Gold  epaulettes  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  the  trash  God  has  kicked  into  the  world 
to  serve,  to  salute,  to 

KNEIB.    Boy — boy 

GEEBT.  Six  months — six  months  in  a  cell  for  ref- 
ormation. To  be  reformed  by  eating  food  you  could 
not  swallow; — rye  bread,  barley,  pea  soup,  rats! 
Three  months  I  pasted  paper  bags,  and  when  I  saw 
the  chance  I  ate  the  sour  paste  from  hunger.  Three 
months  I  sorted  peas;  you'll  not  believe  it,  but  may 
I  never  look  on  the  sea  again  if  I  lie.  At  night,  over 
my  gas  light,  I  would  cook  the  peas  I  could  nip  in 
my  slop  pail.  When  the  handle  became  too  hot  to 
hold  any  longer,  I  ate  them  half  boiled — to  fill  my 
stomach.  That's  to  reform  you — reform  you — for 
losing  your  temper  and  licking  a  blackguard  that 
called  your  girl  a  vile  name,  and  reading  newspapers 
you  were  not  allowed  to  read. 

KNEIB.     [Anxiously.]     That  was  unjust. 

GEEBT.  Unjust!  How  dare  you  say  it!  Fresh 
from  the  sea — in  a  cell — no  wind  and  no  water,  and 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  41 

no  air — one  small  high  window  with  grating  like 
a  partridge  cage.  The  foul  smell  and  the  nights — the 
damned  nights,  when  you  couldn  't  sleep.  When  you 
sprang  up  and  walked,  like  an  insane  man,  back  and 
forth — back  and  forth — four  measured  paces.  The 
nights  when  you  sat  and  prayed  not  to  go  insane — 
and  cursed  everything,  everything,  everything! 
[Drops  his  head  upon  his  hands.] 

Jo.  [After  a  long  pause  goes  to  him  and  throws 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  KNEIBTJE  weeps,  BABEND 
stands  dazed:}  Geert ! 

GEEET.  Now!  Don't  let  us — [Forcibly  controlling 
his  tears.]  A  light!  [Smokes.]  Now,  Mother! 
[Goes  to  the  window — says  to  B ABEND.]  Lay  out 
the  good  things — [Draws  up  the  curtain.]  I'll  be 
damned !  if  the  rooster  isn't  sitting  on  the  roof  again, 
ha,  ha,  ha !  will  you  believe  it  ?  I  would  like  to  sail 
at  once — two  days  on  the  Sea !  the  Sea !  the  Sea ! — 
and  I'm  my  old  self  again.  What! — Why  is  Truus 
crying  as  she  walks  by?  Truus!  [Calling.] 

KNEIB.  Ssst! — Don't  call  after  her.  The  Anna 
has  just  come  in  without  her  husband.  [A  few  sad- 
looking,  low-speaking  women  walk  past  the  window.] 
Poor  thing !  Six  children 

GEEBT.  Is  Ari — [She  nods.]  That's  damned  sad ! 
[Drops  the  window  curtain,  stands  in  somber 
thought.] 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

[Same  Room.    Time — Early  Afternoon.] 

Jo.    [By  the  table.]     Hey! 

MABIETJE.     [Entering.]    They  haven't  come  yet? 

SIMON.  No,  they  haven't  come  yet.  [Starting 
to  go.] 

Jo.    Are  you  running  away  again? 

SIMON.    That  is  to  say 

MABIETJE.    Good  gracious,  father,  do  stay  awhile. 

SIMON.    Yes — I  won't  go  far — I  must 

MABIETJE.    You  must  nothing 

SIMON.  Well,  Salamander,  am  I  a  child?  I  must 
— I  must [Abruptly  off.] 

MABIETJE.  Stop  it  if  you  can.  It  begins  early  in 
the  morning. 

Jo.    Is  he  bad  again? 

MABIETJE.  You  should  have  seen  him  day  before 
yesterday — half  the  village  at  his  heels.  Ach  I  Ach ! 
When  Mother  was  living  he  didn't  dare.  She  used 
to  slap  his  face  for  him  when  he  smelled  of  gin — just 
let  me  try  it. 

Jo.  [Bursting  into  a  laugh.]  You  say  that  as 
though — ha  ha  ha!  Mees  ought  to  hear  that. 

MABIETJE.  I  never  have  seen  Mees  drinking — and 
father  very  seldom  formerly.  Ah  well — I  can't  put 
a  cork  in  his  mouth,  nor  lead  him  around  by  a  rope. 
[Looks  through  the  window.]  Gone,  of  course — to 
the  Booie.  Horrid  old  drunkard.  How  old  is 
Kneirtje  today? 

Jo.  Sixty-one.  Young  for  her  years,  isn't  she, 
eh?  Sit  down  and  tell  me  [Merrily.]  when  are  you 
going  to  be  married? 

42 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  43 

MAEIETJE.  That  depends  on  the  length  of  the  voy- 
age. You  know  we  would  like  to  marry  at  once 

[Smiles,  hesitates.}  because — because Well,  you 

understand.  But  Mees  had  to  send  for  his  papers 
first — that  takes  two  weeks — by  that  time  he  is  far 
out  at  sea ;  now  five  weeks — five  little  weeks  will  pass 
quickly  enough. 

Jo.  [Joyfully  confidential.]  We  shall  be  mar- 
ried in  December. 

MAEIETJE.    That's  about  the  same Are  you 

two  I Now! I  told  you  everything 

[Jo  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  laughs.] 

KNEIB.     [Entering.]     Laughing  as  usual. 

MAEIETJE.  [Kissing  her.]  May  you  live  to  be  a 
hundred 

KNEIE.  God  forbid ! — a  hundred  years.  I  haven't 
the  money  for  that !  [Opening  a  bag.]  You  may  try 
one — you,  too — gingerbread  nuts — no,  not  two,  you, 
with  the  grab-all  fingers!  For  each  of  the  boys  a 
half  pound  gingerbread  nuts — and  a  half  pound 
chewing  tobacco — and  a  package  of  cigars.  Do  you 
know  what  I'm  going  to  give  Barend  since  he  has 
become  so  brave — look 

Jo.    Now — you  should  give  those  to  Geert 

KNEIB.  No,  I'm  so  pleased  with  the  lad  that  he 
has  made  up  his  mind  I  want  to  reward  him. 

MAEIETJE.    Did  you  buy  them? 

KNEIE.  No,  indeed!  These  are  ever  so  old,  they 
are  earrings.  My  husband  wore  them  Sundays, 
when  he  was  at  home. 

MABIETJE.  There  are  little  ships  on  them — masts 
— and  sails — I  wish  I  had  them  for  a  brooch. 

Jo.  Why  give  them  to  that  coward!  That's  not 
right. 

MABIETJE.  You  had  a  time  getting  him  to  sign — > 
Eh! 


44  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KNEIR.  Yes — yes.  But  he  was  willing  to  go  with 
his  brother — and  now  take  it  home  to  yourself — a 
boy  that  is  not  strong — not  very  strong — rejected  for 
the  army,  and  a  boy  who  heard  a  lot  about  his  father 
and  Josef. 

Jo.  I  just  can 't  stand  that !  First  you  curse  and 
scold  at  him,  and  now  nothing  is  too  good. 

KNEIB.  Even  so,  no  matter  what  has  been.  In 
an  hour  he  will  be  gone,  and  you  must  never  part  in 
anger.  Have  a  sweet  dram,  Marietje.  We  have 
fresh  wafers  and  ginger  cakes  all  laid  in  for  my 
birthday — set  it  all  ready,  Jo.  Saart  is  coming  soon, 
and  the  boys  may  take  a  dram,  too. 

COBUS.  [Through  the  window.  DAANTJE  with 
him.] 

A  sweet  young  Miss 

And  a  glass  of  Anis — 

I  shall  surely  come  in  for  this. 

KNEIB.  Throw  your  chew  away  before  you  come 
in. 

COB.  Indeed  I '11  not !  [Hides  it  in  his  red  hand- 
kerchief.] No — now — you  know  what  I  want  to  say. 

DAAN.    Same  here.    Same  here. 

Jo.    I  don't  need  to  ask  if [Pours  the  dram.] 

COB.    No — no — go  ahead — just  a  little  more. 

Jo.    There ! — now  it  is  running  over. 

COB.  No  matter,  I  shan't  spill  a  drop.  [Bends 
trembling  to  the  table.  Lips  to  the  glass,  sucks  up 
the  liquor.]  He,  he,  he! 

DAAN.    Ginger  cake!    If  you  please.    [Yawns.] 

MABIETJE.     [Imitating  his  yawn.]     Ah!    Thanks! 

DAAN.  When  you  have  my  years! —  Hardly 
slept  a  wink  last  night — and  no  nap  this  afternoon. 

Jo.    Creep  into  the  bedstead. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  45 

COB.    That 's  what  he  would  like  to  do * 

MABIETJE.    Better  take  a  hot  bottle,  Daan! 

COB.    Now,  if  I  had  my  choice 

KNEIB.  Hold  your  tongue — Story  teller!  The 
Matron  at  the  Home  has  to  help  dress  him.  And 
yet  he 

Jo.    Ha,  ha,  ha !    Oh,  Uncle  Cobus ! 

MABIETJE.    Oh!    Oh!    Hahaha! 

COB.  Tja!  the  Englishman  says:  "The  old  man 
misses  the  kisses,  and  the  young  man  kisses  the 
misses.*'  Do  you  know  what  that  means? 

Jo.  Yes,  that  means,  "Woman,  take  your  cat  in- 
side, its  beginning  to  rain. '  '  Hahaha !  Hahaha ! 

SAABT.  [Through  door  at  left.]  Good  day!  Con- 
gratulations everybody ! 

COB.    Come  in. 

SAABT.  Good  day,  Daantje ;  day,  Cobus ;  and  day, 
Marietje ;  and  day,  Jo.  No,  I'll  not  sit  down. 

KNEIB.    A  dram 

SAABT.  No,  I'll  not  sit  down.  My  kettle  is  on  the 
fire. 

Jo.    Come  now ! 

SAABT.  No,  I  'm  not  going  to  do  it — my  door  is  ajar 
— and  the  cat  may  tip  over  the  oil  stove.  No,  just 
give  it  to  me  this  way — so — so — many  happy  returns, 
and  may  your  boys —  Where  are  the  boys  ? 

KNEIB.  Geert  has  gone  to  say  good  bye,  and 
Barend  has  gone  with  Mees  to  take  the  mattresses 
and  chests  in  the  yawl.  They'll  soon  be  here,  for 
they  must  be  on  board  by  three  o'clock. 

SAABT.  Hey,  this  burns  my  heart  out.  [Refers  to 
the  anisette.']  Were  you  at  Leen's  yesterday? 

KNEIB.    No,  couldn't  go. 

SAABT.  There  was  a  lot  of  everything  and  more 
too.  The  bride  was  full, — three  glasses  "roses  with- 


46  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

out  thorns,"  two  of  "perfect  love,"  and  surely  four 
glasses  of  "love  in  a  mist."  Well!  Where  she 
stowed  it  all  I  don 't  know. 

COB.  Give  me  the  old  fashioned  dram,  brandy  and 
syrup — eh!  Daantje? 

DAANTJE.     [Startled.]     What? 

KNEIB.  He's  come  here  to  sleep — you  look  as  if 
you  hadn't  been  to  bed  at  all. 

COB.    In  his  bed — he,  he,  he ! 

DAAN.     [Crossly.]    Come,  no  jokes. 

COB.    Hehehe!    [Takes  out  his  handkerchief.] 

KNEIB.    No,  I  say,  don't  take  out  your  chew. 

SAABT.    Old  snooper! 

COB.  Snooper!  No,  you'd  never  guess  how  I  got 
it.  Less  than  ten  minutes  ago  I  met  Bos  the  ship- 
owner, and  he  gave  me — he  gave  me  a  little  white 
roll — of — of  tissue  paper  with  tobacco  inside.  What 
do  you  call  the  things  ? 

MABIETJE.    Cigarettes. 

COB.  Yes,  catch  me  smoking  a  thing  like  that  in— 
in  paper — that's  a  chew  with  a  shirt  on. 

SAABT.  And  you're  a  crosspatch  without  a  shirt. 
No,  I'm  not  going  to  sit  down. 

Jo.    It's  already  poured  out. 

SIMON.     [Drunk.]     Day. 

KNEIB.    Day,  Simon — shove  in,  room  for  you  here. 

SIMON.  [Plumps  down  by  door  at  left.]  I'll  sit 
here. 

COB.    Have  a  sweet  dram? 

MABIETJE.    No. 

SIMON.     [Huskily.]    Why  no? 

MABIETJE.    You've  had  enough. 

SIMON.    Havel?    Salamanders! 

MABIETJE.    No,  I  won't  have  it. 

KNEIB.    Did  you  see  Geert  ? 

SIMON.     [Muttering.]    Wh — wh —  Geert! 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  47 

COB.    Give  him  just  one,  for  a  parting  cup. 

MAEIETJE.     [Angrily.}     No!    No! 

SIMON.  [Thickly.]  No!  I '11  be  damned !  [Lights 
a  nose  warmer.] 

KNEIE.  Is  there  much  work  in  the  dry  dock, 
Simon? 

SIMON.    That  stands  fast. 

SAAET.    Well — I'm  going. 

Jo.  Hey!  How  unsociable !  They'll  soon  be  here. 
Come  sit  down 

SAABT.  No,  if  I  sit  down  I  stay  too  long.  Well 
then,  half  a  glass — no — no  cookies. 

GEEKT.  [Through  door  at  left.]  It  looks  like  all 
hands  on  deck  here !  Good  day,  everybody !  [Point- 
ing to  SIMON.]  Lazarus!  Eh,  Simon? 

SIMON.     [Muttering.]    Uh — ja 

MAEIETJE.    Let  him  alone. 

GEEET.  The  deuce,  but  you  're  touchy !  We  Ve  got 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  boys !  Pour  out  the  drinks,  Jo. 
[Sits  between  KNEIE.  and  Jo.]  Here's  to  you, 
Mother!  Prost!  Santy,  Jo!  Santy,  Daantje! 
Santys ! 

Jo.  Hahaha!  Fallen  asleep  with  a  ginger  nut  in 
his  hand. 

KNEIE.    Isn't  he  well? 

COB.  No.  Sick  in  the  night — afraid  to  call  the 
matron;  walked  about  in  his  bare  feet;  got  chilled. 

GEEET.  Afraid  of  the  Matron!  Are  you  eating 
charity  bread? 

COB.  It's  easy  for  you  to  talk,  but  if  you  disturb 
her,  she  keeps  you  in  for  two  weeks. 

GEEET.  Poor  devils — I  don't  want  to  live  to  be 
so  old. 

Jo.  Oh,  real  sweet  of  you.  We're  not  even  mar- 
ried yet — and  he 's  a  widower  already ! 

GEEET.     [Gaily.]    There 's  many  a  slip !    Hahaha! 


48  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Shall  I  give  him  a  poke?    I  don't  need  a  belaying 
pin [Sings.] 

"Sailing,  sailing,  don't  wait  to  be  called; 
Starboard  watch,  spring  from  your  bunk ; 
Let  the  man  at  the  wheel  go  to  his  rest ; 
The  rain  is  good  and  the  wind  is  down. 
It's  sailing,  it's  sailing, 
It's  sailing  for  the  starboard  watch." 

[The  others  join  him  in  'beating  time  on  the  table 
with  their  fists.] 

Ilahalm!    [General  laugh.] 

DAAN.  [Awakes  with  a  start.]  You'll  do  the 
same  when  you're  as  old  as  I  am. 

GEEBT.  Hahaha!  I'll  never  be  old.  Leaky  ships 
must  sink. 

Jo.    Now,  Geert. 

SAABT.  Never  be  old !  You  might  have  said  that 
a  while  back  when  you  looked  like  a  wet  dish  rag. 
But  now !  Prison  life  agreed  with  you,  boy ! 

COB.  Hehehe !  Now  we  can  make  up  a  song  about 
you,  pasting  paper  bags — just  as  Domela — he  he  he ! 
[Sings  in  a  piping  voice.] 

My  newy  Geert  pastes  paper  bags, 

Hi-ha,  ho ! 

My  newy  Geert 

SAABT.    Pastes  paper  bags. 

DAAN.,  Jo.,  MABIETJE  and  COBUS.    Hi — ha — ho ! 

GEEBT.  [Laughing.]  Go  to  thunder!  You're 
making  a  joke  of  it ! 

KNEIB.  [Anxiously.]  Please  don't  be  so  noisy. 
It  isn't  best. 

Jo.  Oh !  I  expected  that !  This  is  your  birthday, 
see !  Do  take  a  chair,  Saart. 

SAABT.    Chair.    I'm  blest  if  I  see 

MABIETJE.    I  don't  mind  standing. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  49 

SAABT.  No — there's  room  here.  [Squeezes  in  be- 
side COBUS.] 

COB.    I'll  be  falling  off  here ! 

MAKIETJE.  [Standing  beside  her  dazed  father.'] 
Father! 

SIMON.  [Muttering. "\  They  must — they  must — 
not — not — that's  fast. 

MAEIETJE.     Come,  now! 

GEEET.  Let  the  man  sail  his  own  mast  overboard ! 
He  isn't  in  the  way. 

SIMON.  [With  dazed  gesture.}  You  must — you 
must 

MABIETJE.     [Crossly.]    What's  the  matter  now? 

SIMON.  [Mumbling.]  The  ribs — and — and 

[Firmly.]  That's  fast! 

GEEET,  Jo.,  COBUS,  DAANTJE  and  SAAET.  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

MEES.    [Enters.]    Salute ! 

KNEIE.  [Anxiously.]  Are  you  alone!  Where's 
Barend? 

MEES.    I  don 't  know. 

KNEIR.  You  went  together  to  take  the  mattresses 
and  chests 

MEES.    Bow  with  the  skipper!    He's  no  sailor! 

Jo.    A  row?    Has  the  trouble  begun  already? 

MEES.  Can 't  repeat  a  word  of  it — afraid — afraid 

— always  afraid [To  MABIETJE,  who  has  induced 

her  -father  to  rise.]  Are  you  coming  along? 

Jo.  No,  take  a  dram  before  you  go.  It's  Aunt's 
birthday. 

MEES.  You  don't  say!  Now — now — Kneir,  many 
happy  returns. 

KNEIE.    You  have  made  me  anxious. 

Jo.    [Laughing.]    Anxious ! 

KNEIE.  Yes,  anxious!  She's  surprised  at  that. 
I've  taken  an  advance  from  Bos. 


50  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

GEEBT.  He's  signed,  hasn't  he?  Don't  worry, 
Mother! 

COB.  Perhaps  he's  saying  good-bye  to  his  girl. 
[Sound  of  JELLE 's  fiddle  outside.']  Ta,  de,  da  I 

SAART.  Do  sit  still — one  would  think  you'd  eaten 
horse  flesh. 

DAAN.    They  give  us  meat?    Not  even  a  dead  cat ! 

JELLE.     [Playing  the  old  polka.]    If  you  please! 

GEERT.    Come  on  in,  old  man! 

Jo.    Poor  old  fellow,  gets  blinder  every  day. 

JELLE.     [Playing.]    I  come  regular  once  a  week. 

GEEBT.  Another  tune  first,  Old  Man!  Not  that 
damned  old  polka. 

Jo.  Yes,  play  that  tune  of —  of —  what  do  you 
call  'em? 

COB.    Yes,  the  one  she  mentions  is  fine. 

SAART.  You  know,  Jelle,  the  one — that  one  that 
goes  [Sings.]  "I  know  a  song  that  charms  the 
heart." 

MEES.  Say!  Give  us [JELLE  begins  the  Mar- 
seillaise.] That's  better  fare.  [Sings.]  "Alloose — 
vodela — bedei je — deboe — debie — de  boolebie. ' ' 

MARIETJE.  Hahaha !  That's  the  French  of  a  dead 
codfish! 

Jo.    Hahaha ! 

MEES.  Laugh  all  you  please!  I've  laid  in  a 
French  port — and  say,  it  was  first  rate!  When  I 
said  pain  they  gave  me  bread — and  when  I  said 
"open  the  port,"  they  opened  the  door.  Great! 

GEEBT.  All  Gammon!  Begin  again,  Jelle.  Why 
the  devil!  Let's  use  the  Dutch  words  we've  got 
for  it. 

[JELLE  begins  again.    GEEBT  roars.] 

"Arise  men,  brothers,  all  united! 
Arise  burgers,  come  join  with  us ! 
Your  wrongs,  your  sorrows  be  avenged" — 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  51 

Bos.  [Who  has  stood  at  the  open  window  listen- 
ing during  the  singing,  yells  angrily.]  What's  going 
on  here?  [Scared  hush  over  all.]  Damn  it!  It's 
high  time  you  were  all  on  board !  [Goes  off  furious.] 

KNEIR.  [After  a  long  pause.]  Oh —  Oh — how  he 
scared  me — he !  he ! 

Jo.    What's  the  matter  with  him? 

MEES.  I  couldn't  think  where  the  voice  came 
from. 

SAABT.  How  stupid  of  you  to  roar  like  a  weaned 
pig,  when  you  know  Meneer  Bos  lives  only  two  doors 
away. 

MABIETJE.    Lord,  wasn't  he  mad. 

COB.  Hehehe!  You'll  never  eat  a  sack  of  salt 
with  him. 

KNEIR.  What  business  had  you  to  sing  those  low 
songs,  anyway? 

GEERT.  Well,  I'll  be  damned!  Am  I  in  my  own 
house  or  not?  If  he  hadn't  taken  me  by  surprise! 
An  old  frog  like  that  before  your  eyes  of  a  sudden. 
I  'd  cleaned  out  his  cupboard !  Play  on,  Jelle ! 

[JELLE  begins  again.] 

KNEIB.  Ach,  please  don't,  Geert.  I'm  afraid  that 
if  Meneer  Bos [Motions  to  JELLE  to  stop.] 

GEERT.  This  one  is  afraid  to  sail,  this  one  of  the 
Matron  of  the  Old  Men's  Home,  this  one  of  a  little 
ship  owner!  Forbids  me  in  my  own  house!  Com- 
mands me  as  though  I  were  a  servant ! 

SAABT.  Fun  is  fun,  but  if  you  were  a  ship  owner, 
you  wouldn't  want  your  sailors  singing  like  socialists 
either. 

KNEIB.    When  he  knows  how  dependent  I  am,  too. 

GEERT.  [Passionately.]  Dependent!  Don't  be 
dependent !  Is  it  an  honor  to  do  his  cleaning !  Why 
not  pay  for  the  privilege!  Thank  him  for  letting 
you  scrub !  Dependent !  For  mopping  the  office  floor 


52  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

and  licking  his  muddy  boots  you  get  fifty  cents 
twice  a  week  and  the  scraps  off  their  plates. 

Jo.    Don't  get  so  angry,  foolish  boy ! 

KNEIB.    Oh,  what  a  row  I'll  get  Saturday! 

GBBRT.  A  row,  you?  Why  should  he  row  with 
you?  If  you  hadn't  all  your  life  allowed  this  brag- 
gart who  began  with  nothing  to  walk  over  you  and 
treat  you  as  a  slave,  while  father  and  my  brothers 
lost  their  lives  on  the  sea  making  money  for  him, 
you'd  give  him  a  scolding  and  damn  his  hide  for  his 
insolence  in  opening  his  jaw. 

KNEIB.    I—  I—    God  forbid. 

GEERT.  God  forbids  you  to  bend  your  neck.  Here 
— take  it — Jelle.  Next  year  Mother  will  give  you 
pennies  to  play.  "Arise  men,  brothers,  all 
unite-e-ed" 

KNEIB.  Please,  Geert,  please  don't.  [Lays  her 
hand  on  his  mouth.] 

Jo.  Hey!  Stop  tormenting  your  old  mother  on 
her  birthday.  [JELLE  holds  out  his  hand.]  Here, 
you  can't  stand  on  one  leg. 

COB.  Do  you  want  money  from  me  ?  It 's  all  in  the 
bank.  [Pointing  to  Daan.]  He's  the  man  to  go  to. 

DAAN.  [Crossly,  drinking.]  Peh!  Don't  make  a 
fool  of  me. 

JELLE.    Well,  thanks  to  you  both.    [Off.] 

MEES.    Will  you  come  along  now  ? 

GEERT.  I'll  wait  a  few  minutes  for  Barend. 
What's  your  hurry?  The  boys  will  come  by  here  any 
way. 

SAABT.  Don't  you  catch  on  that  those  two  are — • 
A  good  voyage. 

MEES  and  MABIETJE.  [Shaking  hands.]  Good 
voyage ! 

KNEIR.    Half  past  two — I'm  uneasy. 

SAART.    Half  past  two?    Have  I  staid  so  long — • 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  53 

and  my  door  ajar !  Good  voyage.  Good  day,  Kneir. 
[Off.] 

Bos.  [Brusquely  coming  through  the  kitchen 
door.]  Are  you  also  planning  to  stay  behind? 

GEEBT.     [Gruffly.]    Are  you  speaking  to  me? 

Bos.  [Angrily.]  Yes,  to  you.  Skipper  Hengst 
has  my  orders.  Understand? 

GEERT.     [Calmly  to  the  others.]     Gone  crazy 

Bos.  [More  angry.]  The  police  have  been  no- 
tified. 

GEERT.  [With  forced  calm.]  You  and  the  police 
make  me  tired.  [Cosus  and  DAANTJE  slink  away, 
stopping  outside  to  listen  at  the  window.]  Are  you 
out  of  your  head?  Who  said  I  wasn't  going? 

KNEIR.    Yes,  Meneer,  he  is  all  ready  to  go. 

Bos.  That  other  boy  of  yours  that  Hengst  en- 
gaged— refuses  to  go. 

KNEIR.    Oh,  good  God ! 

Bos.  [To  COBUS  and  DAAN.]  Why  are  you  listen- 
ing? [They  bow  in  a  scared  way  and  hastily  go  on.] 
This  looks  like  a  dive — drunkenness  and  rioting. 

Jo.     [Excusing.]    It's  Aunt's  birthday. 

GEERT.  [Angrily.]  Mother 's  birthday  or  not,  we 
do  as  we  please  here. 

Bos.    You  change  your  tone  or 

GEERT.    My  tone  ?    You  get  out ! 

KNEIR.  [Anxious.]  Ach — dear  Geert —  Don't 
take  offense,  Meneer — he's  quick  tempered,  and  in 
anger  one  says 

Bos.  Things  he 's  no  right  to  say.  Dirt  is  all  the 
thanks  you  get  for  being  good  to  you  people. 
[Threatening.]  If  you're  not  on  board  in  ten  min- 
utes, I'll  send  the  police  for  you ! 

GEERT.  You  send — what  do  you  take  me  for,  any 
way! 

Bos.    What  I  take  him  for — he  asks  that — darea 


54  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

to  ask [To  KNEIKTJE.]  You'll  come  to  me 

again  recommending  a  trouble-maker  kicked  out  by 
the  Navy. 

GEERT.  [  M ocking.  ]  Did  you  recommend? 
Hahaha!  You  make  me  laugh!  You  pay  wages 
and  I  do  the  work.  For  the  rest  you  can  go  to  hell. 

Bos.    You're  just  a  big  overgrown  boy,  that's  all  I 

GEERT.  [Threatening.]  If  it  wasn't  for  Mother 
—I'd 

KNEIR.  [Throwing  her  arms  about  him.]  Geert! 
Geert !  [A  long  pause.] 

Bos.  And  this  in  your  house !  Good  day.  [At  the 
door.]  Kneir,  Kneir,  consider  well  what  you  do — I 
gave  you  an  advance  in  good  faith 

KNEIR.    Ach,  yes,  Meneer — Ach,  yes 

Bos.    Haven't  I  always  treated  you  well? 

KNEIB.    Yes,  Meneer — you  and  the  priest 

Bos.  One  of  your  sons  refuses  to  go,  the  other — 
you'll  come  to  a  bad  end,  my  little  friend. 

GEERT.  Haul  in  your  fore  sheet !  On  board  I  'm  a 
sailor — I'm  the  skipper  here.  Such  a  topsy  turvy! 
A  ship  owner  layin'  down  the  law;  don't  do  this  and 
don't  do  that!  Boring  his  nose  through  the  window 
when  you  don't  sing  to  suit  him. 

Bos.  For  my  part,  sing,  but  a  sensible  sailor  ex- 
pecting to  marry  ought  to  appreciate  it  when  his 
employer  is  looking  out  for  his  good.  Your  father 
was  a  thorough  good  man.  Did  he  ever  threaten  his 
employer?  You  young  fellows  have  no  respect  for 
grey  hairs. 

GEERT.  Respect  for  grey  hairs  ?  By  thunder,  yes ! 
for  grey  hairs  that  have  become  grey  in  want  and 
misery 

Bos.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  Your  mother's 
seen  me,  as  child,  standing  before  the  bait  trays.  I 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  55 

also  have  stood  in  an  East  wind  that  froze  your  ears, 
biting  off  bait  heads 

GEEBT.  That'll  do.  We  don't  care  for  your 
stories,  Meneer.  You  have  become  a  rich  man,  and 
a  tyrant.  Good ! — you  are  perhaps  no  worse  than  the 
rest,  but  don't  interfere  with  me  in  my  own  house. 
My  father  was  a  different  sort.  We  may  all  become 
different,  and  perhaps  my  son  may  live  to  see  the 
day  when  he  will  come,  as  I  did,  twelve  years  ago, 
crying  to  the  office,  to  ask  if  there's  any  news  of  his 
father  and  his  two  brothers !  and  not  find  their  em- 
ployer sitting  by  his  warm  fire  and  his  strong  box, 
drinking  grog.  He  may  not  be  damned  for  coming 
so  often  to  ask  the  same  thing,  nor  be  turned  from 
the  door  with  snubs  and  the  message,  "When  there's 
anything  to  tell  you'll  hear  of  it." 

Bos.  [Roughly.]  You  lie — I  never  did  anything 
of  the  sort. 

GEERT.  I  won't  soil  any  more  words  over  it.  Only 
to  let  you  know  I  remember.  My  father's  hair  was 
grey,  my  mother's  hair  is  grey,  Jelle,  the  poor  devil 
who  can't  find  a  place  in  the  Old  Men's  Home  be- 
cause on  one  occasion  in  his  life  he  was  light-fingered 
— Jelle  has  also  grey  hairs. 

Bos.  Fine !  Eeasoning  without  head  or  tail.  If 
you  hear  him  or  crooked  Jacob,  it's  the  same  cuckoo 
song.  [To  Kneir.~]  Its  come  out,  eh?  But  now  I'll 
give  another  word  of  advice,  my  friend,  before  you 
go  under  sail.  You  have  an  old  mother,  you  expect 
to  marry,  good ;  you've  been  in  prison  six  months — I 
won't  talk  of  that;  you  have  barked  out  your  inso- 
lence to  me  in  your  own  house,  but  if  you  attempt  any 
of  this  talk  on  board  the  Hope  you'll  find  out  there 
is  a  muster  roll. 

GEERT.    Every  year  old  child  knows  that. 


56  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Bos.  When  you've  become  older — and  wiser — 
you'll  be  ashamed  of  your  insolence — "the  ship 
owner  by  his  warm  stove,  and  his  grog" 

GEERT.    And  his  strong  box 

Bos.  [Hotly.]  And  his  cares,  you  haven't  the 
wits  to  understand!  Who  feeds  you  all? 

GEERT.  [Forced  calmness.]  Who  hauls  the  fish 
out  of  the  sea  ?  Who  risks  his  life  every  hour  of  the 
day?  Who  doesn't  take  off  his  clothes  in  five  or  six 
weeks?  Who  walks  with  hands  covered  with  salt 
sores, — without  water  to  wash  face  or  hands?  Who 
sleep  like  beasts  two  in  a  bunk?  Who  leave  wives 
and  mothers  behind  to  beg  alms?  Twelve  head  of 
us  are  presently  going  to  sea — we  get  twenty-five  per 
cent  of  the  catch,  you  seventy-five.  We  do  the  work, 
you  sit  safely  at  home.  Your  ship  is  insured,  and 
we — we  can  go  to  the  bottom  in  case  of  accident — we 
are  not  worth  insuring 

KNEIR.     [Soothing.]    Geert!    Geert!    Geert! 

Bos.  That's  an  entertaining  lad!  You  should  be 
a  clown  in  a  circus!  Twenty-seven  per  cent  isn't 
enough  for  him 

GEERT.  I'll  never  eat  salted  codfish  from  your 
generosity !  Our  whole  share  is  in  ' '  profit  and  loss. ' ' 
When  luck  is  with  us  we  each  make  eight  guilders  a 
week,  one  guilder  a  day  when  we're  lucky.  One 
guilder  a  day  at  sea,  to  prepare  salt  fish,  cod  with 
livers  for  the  people  in  the  cities — hahaha! — a 
guilder  a  day — when  you're  lucky  and  don't  go  to 
the  bottom.  You  fellows  know  what  you're  about 
when  you  engage  us  on  shares. 

[Old  and  young  heads  of  fishermen  appear  at  the 
windoiv.] 

A  VOICE.  Are  you  coming?  [Bos  is  politely 
greeted.] 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  57 

GEERT.     I  shall  soon  follow  you. 

Bos.  Good  voyage,  men !  And  say  to  the  skipper 

• — no,  never  mind — I'll  be  there  myself [A 

pause.}  Twenty-five  minutes  past  two.  Now  I'll 
take  two  minutes  more,  blockhead,  to  rub  under  your 
nose  something  I  tried  three  times  to  say,  but  you 
gave  me  no  chance  to  get  in  a  word.  When  you  lie 
in  your  bunk  tonight — as  a  beast,  of  course! — try 
and  think  of  my  risks,  by  a  poor  catch — lost  nets 
and  cordage — by  damages  and  lightning  in  the  mast, 
by  running  aground,  and  God  knows  what  else.  The 
Jacoba's  just  had  her  hatches  torn  off,  the  Queen 
Wilhelmina  half  her  bulwarks  washed  away.  You 
don't  count  that,  for  you  don't  have  to  pay  for  it! 
Three  months  ago  the  Expectation  collided  with  a 
steamer.  Without  a  thought  of  the  catch  or  the  nets, 
the  men  sprang  overboard,  leaving  the  ship  to  drift ! 
Who  thought  of  my  interests?  You  laugh,  boy,  be- 
cause you  don't  realize  what  cares  I  have.  On  the 
Mathilde  last  week  the  men  smuggled  gin  and  to- 
bacco in  their  mattresses  to  sell  to  the  English.  Now 
the  ship  lies  chained.  Do  you  pay  the  fine? 

GEERT.    Pluck  feathers  off  a  frog's  back.  Hahaha ! 

Bos.  If  you  were  talking  about  conditions  in  Mid- 
delharnis  or  Pernis,  you'd  have  reason  for  it.  My 
men  don't  pay  the  harbor  costs,  don't  pay  for 
bait,  towing,  provisions,  barrels,  salt.  I  don't  expect 
you  to  pay  the  loss  of  the  cordage,  if  a  gaff  or  a  boom 
breaks.  I  go  into  my  own  pocket  for  it.  I  gave  your 
mother  an  advance,  your  brother  Barend  deserts. 

KNEIR.    No,  Meneer,  I  can't  believe  that. 

Bos.  Hengst  telephoned  me  from  the  harbor,  else 
I  wouldn't  have  been  here  to  be  insulted  by  your 
oldest  son,  who 's  disturbing  the  whole  neighborhood 
roaring  his  scandalous  songs !  I  'm  going  to  the  ship ! 


58  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

[Angrily.]  If  you're  not  on  board  on  time  I'll  apply 
"Article  Sixteen"  and  fine  you  twenty-five  guilders. 

GEEBT.    Yes,  why  not  ?    I  can  stand  it ! 

Bos.  [Turning  to  Knew.]  As  for  you,  my  wife 
doesn't  need  you  at  present,  you're  all  a  bad  lot  here. 

KNEIB.  [Anxiously.]  Ach,  Meneer,  it  isn't  my 
fault! 

GEEBT.    Must  you  punish  the  old  woman  too? 

Bos.  Blame  your  own  sons  for  that!  After  this 
voyage  you  can  look  for  another  employer,  who  en- 
joys throwing  pearls  before  swine  better  than  I  do ! 

GEEBT.  And  now,  get  out !  Get  out !  [Pushes  the 
door  shut  after  Bos.] 

KNEIB.    What  a  birthday !    What  a  birthday ! 

Jo.  Don't  hang  your  head  so  soon,  Aunt!  Geert 
was  in  the  right 

KNEIB.    In  the  right !   What  good  does  that  do  ? 

GEEBT.    You're  not  running  after  him? 

KNEIB.  No,  to  look  for  Barend.  Great  God,  if  he 
should  desert — if  he  deserts — he  also  goes  to  prison 
— two  sons  who 

GEEBT.  Aren't  you  going  to  wish  me  a  good  voy- 
age— or  don't  you  think  that  necessary? 

KNEIB.  My  head  is  queer.  I'm  coming  to  the 
harbor.  Yes,  I'm  coming 

Jo.    I'm  sorry  for  her,  the  poor  thing. 

GEEBT.    He 's  a  hound,  that  fellow ! 

Jo.  Where 's  your  sou  'wester  ?  Hope  it  isn  't  mis- 
laid. You  gave  him  a  talking  to,  didn't  you?  It  was 
drunken  Simon  that  set  him  going.  Now  don't  look 
so  solemn.  Here  it  is.  [Picks  a  geranium  from  a 
flower  pot.]  There!  And  you  keep  it  on,  so.  [On 
his  knee.]  And  you  will  think  of  me  every  night, 
will  you?  Will  you?  [Springing  up.]  What,  are 
you  back  so  soon? 

KNEIB.     [Enters.]     Isn't  he  in  here? 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  59 

GEERT.    He 's  in  the  pocket  of  my  jacket !  Hahaha ! 

KNEIR.  Truus  saw  him  hanging  around  the  house. 
Ach!  Ach!  Ach! 

GEERT.  We're  going!  Come  along  with  us.  If 
that  coward  refuses  to  go,  your  sitting  at  home  won't 
help  a  damn. 

KNEIR.    No,  no,  no. 

Jo.    Follow  after  us,  then ! 

KNEIR.  [Anxiously.}  Yes,  yes,  yes!  Don't  for- 
get your  chewing  tobacco  and  your  cigars 

GEERT.  [Gaily.}  If  you're  too  late — I'll  never 
look  at  you  again ! 

[Exeunt  GEERT  and  Jo.] 

BAR.     [Entering  quickly  from  left.}     S-s-s-st! 

KNEIR.    You  miserable  bad  boy ! 

BAB.     S-ssst ! 

KNEIR.  What  sssst!  I'll  shout  the  whole  village 
together  if  you  don't  immediately  run  and  follow 
Geert  and  Jo. 

BAR.  [Panting.}  If  you  can  keep  Geert  from  go- 
ing— call  him  back ! 

KNEIR.  Have  you  gone  crazy  with  fear,  you  big 
coward? 

BAR.  [Panting.}  The  Good  Hope  is  no  good,  no 
good — her  ribs  are  rotten — the  planking  is  rot- 
ten!  

KNEIR.  Don't  stand  there  telling  stories  to  ex- 
cuse yourself.  After  half  past  two !  March ! 

BAR.     [Almost  crying.}    If  you  don't  believe  me! 

KNEIR.  I  won't  listen.  March!  or  I'll  slap  your 
face. 

BAR.  Strike  me  then !  Strike  me  then !  Ah,  God ! 
keep  Geert  from  going!  Simon  the  ship  carpenter 
warned  me. 

KNEIR.  Simon,  the  ship  carpenter — that  drunken 
sot  who  can't  speak  two  words.  You  are  a  disgusting 


60  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

bad  boy.  First  you  sign,  then  you  run  away !  Get 
up! 

BAB.  Me — you  may  beat  me  to  death! — but  I 
won 't  go  on  an  unseaworthy  ship ! 

KNEIB.  What  do  you  know  about  it?  Hasn't  the 
ship  been  lying  in  the  dry  docks! 

BAB.  There  was  no  caulking  her  any  more — 
Simon 

KNEIB.  Shut  your  mouth  with  your  Simon! 
March,  take  your  package  of  chewing  tobacco. 

BAB.  [Yelling.]  I'm  not  going — I'm  not  going. 
You  don't  know — you  didn't  see  it!  The  last  voyage 
she  had  a  foot  of  water  in  her  hold ! 

KNEIB.  The  last  voyage?  A  ship  that  has  just 
returned  from  her  fourth  voyage  to  the  herring  catch 
and  that  has  brought  fourteen  loads!  Has  it  sud- 
denly become  unseaworthy,  because  you,  you  miser- 
able coward,  are  going  along? 

BAB.  [With  feverish  anxiety.]  I  looked  in  the 
hold — the  barrels  were  floating.  You  can  see  death 
that  is  hiding  down  there. 

KNEIB.  Bilge  water,  as  in  every  ship !  The  bar- 
rels floating!  Tell  that  to  your  grandmother,  not  to 
an  old  sailor's  wife.  Skipper  Hengst  is  a  child,  eh! 
Isn't  Hengst  going  and  Mees  and  Gerrit  and  Jacob 
and  Nellis — your  own  brother  and  Truus'  little 
Peter?  Do  you  claim  to  know  more  than  old  seamen? 
[Fiercely.]  Get  up!  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it  to 
see  you  taken  aboard  by  the  police 

BAB.  [Crying.]  Oh,  Mother  dear,  Mother  dear, 
don't  make  me  go! 

KNEIB.  Oh,  God ;  how  you  have  punished  me  in 
my  children — my  children  are  driving  me  to  beggary. 
I've  taken  an  advance — Bos  has  refused  to  give  me 
any  more  cleaning  to  do — and — and [Firmly.] 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  61 

Well,  then,  let  them  come  for  you — you'd  better  be 
taken  than  run  away.  Oh,  oh,  that  this  should  hap- 
pen in  my  family 

BAB.    [Running  to  the  cooking  shed.] 

KNEIR.  [Barring  the  way.]  You'll  not  get 
out 

BAR.  Let  me  pass,  Mother.  I  don't  know  what 
I'm  doing — I  might  hurt 

KNEIR.  Now  he  is  brave,  against  his  sixty  year 
old  mother Eaise  your  hand  if  you  dare ! 

BAB.  [Falls  on  a  chair  shaking  his  head  between 
his  hands.]  Oh,  oh,  oh —  If  they  take  me  aboard, 
you'll  never  see  me  again — you'll  never  see  Geert 
again 

KNEIR.  The  ship  is  in  God's  hands.  It's  tempt- 
ing God  to  rave  this  way  with  fear [Friendlier 

tone.]  Come,  a  man  of  your  age  must  not  cry  like  a 
child — come !  I  wanted  to  surprise  you  with  Father's 
earrings — come ! 

BAB.  Mother  dear — I  don't  dare — I  don't  dare — 
I  shall  drown — hide  me — hide  me 

KNEIB.  Have  you  gone  insane,  boy !  If  I  believed 
a  word  of  your  talk,  would  I  let  Geert  go !  [Puts  a 
package  in  his  pocket.]  There's  a  package  of  to- 
bacco, and  one  of  cigars.  Now  sit  still,  and  I'll  put 
in  your  earrings — look — [Talking  as  to  a  child.] — 
real  silver — ships  on  them  with  sails — sit  still,  now 
— there's  one — there's  two — walk  to  the  looking 
glass 

BAR.     [Crying.]     No — no! 

KNEIR.  Come  now,  you're  making  me  weak  for 
nothing — please,  dear  boy — I  do  love  you  and  your 
brother — you're  all  I  have  on  earth.  Come  now! 
Every  night  I  will  pray  to  the  good  God  to  bring 
you  home  safely.  You  must  get  used  to  it,  then  you 


62  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

will  become  a  brave  seaman — and — and [Cries.] 

Come  now,  Barend,  Barend !  [Holds  the  mirror  be- 
fore him.]  Look  at  your  earrings — what? 

IST  POLICEMAN.  [Coming  in  through  door  at 
left,  good-natured  manner.]  Skipper  Hengst  has  re- 
quested the  Police If  you  please,  my  little  man, 

we  have  no  time  to  lose. 

BAB.  [Screaming.]  I  won't  go!  I  won't  go  I  The 
ship — is  rotten 

2ND  POLICEMAN.  [Smiling  good  naturedly.]  Then 
you  should  not  have  mustered  in.  Must  we  use 
force?  Come  now,  little  man.  [Taps  him  kindly  on 
the  shoulder.] 

BAB.  Don't  touch  me!  Don't  touch  me!  [Clings 
desperately  to  the  bedstead  and  door  jamb.] 

2ND  POLICEMAN.  Must  we  put  on  the  handcuffs, 
boy? 

BAB.  [Moaning.]  Help  me,  Mother!  You'll 
never  see  me  again !  I  shall  drown  in  the  dirty,  stink- 
ing sea ! 

IST  POLICEMAN.  [Crossly.]  Come,  come  I  Let  go 
of  the  door  jamb!  [Seizes  his  wrists.] 

BAB.  [Clinging  harder.]  No !  [Shrieking.]  Cut 
off  my  hands!  Oh  God,  Oh  God,  Oh  God!  [Crawls 
up  against  the  wall,  beside  himself  with  terror.] 

KNEIB.    [Almost  crying.]    The  boy  is  afraid 

IST  POLICEMAN.    Then  you  tell  him  to  let  go ! 

KNEIB.  [Sobbing  as  she  seizes  BABEND'S  hands.] 
Come  now,  boy — come  now — God  will  not  forsake 
you 

BAB.  [Moaning  as  he  loosens  his  hold,  sobs  de- 
spairingly.] You'll  never  see  me  again,  never 
again 

IST  POLICEMAN.    Forward,  march ! 

[They  exeunt,  dragging  BAREND.] 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  63 


KNEIE.    Oh,  oh- 


TEUUS.  [With  anxious  curiosity,  at  side  door.] 
"What  was  the  matter,  Kneir? 

KNEIB.  [Sobbing.]  Barend  had  to  be  taken  by 
the  police.  Oh,  and  now  I'm  ashamed  to  go  walk 
through  the  village,  to  tell  them  good  bye — the  dis- 
grace— the  disgrace 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 

[Scene:  Same  as  before.  Evening.  A  lighted 
lamp — the  illuminated  chimney  gives  a  red  glow.  A 
rushing  wind  howls  about  the  house.  Jo  and 
KNEIRTJE  discovered.  KNEIRTJE  lying  on  bed, 
dressed,  Jo  reading  to  her  from  prayerbook.] 

Jo.  And  this  verse  is  mighty  fine.  Are  you  listen- 
ing! [Reads.] 

" Mother  Mary!  in  piteousness, 
To  your  poor  children  of  the  sea, 

Reach  down  your  arms  in  their  distress; 
With  God  their  intercessor  be. 

Unto  the  Heart  Divine  your  prayer 

Will  make  an  end  to  all  their  care." 

[Staring  into  the  bed.]  Are  you  asleep!  Aunt! 
Are  you  asleep?  [A  knock — she  tiptoes  to  cook-shed 
door,  puts  her  finger  to  her  lips  in  warning  to  CLEM- 
ENTINE and  KAPS,  who  enter.]  Softly,  Miss. 

CLEMENTINE.  [To  KAPS.]  Shut  the  door.  What 
a  tempest!  My  eyes  are  full  of  sand.  [To  Jo.]  Is 
Kneir  in  bed? 

Jo.  She's  lying  down  awhile  in  her  clothes.  She's 
not  herself  yet,  feverish  and  coughing. 

CLEMENTINE.  I've  brought  her  a  plate  of  soup, 
and  a  half  dozen  eggs.  Now  then,  Kaps !  Kaps ! 

KAPS.    Yes  ? 

CLEMENTINE.  On  the  table.  What  a  bore?  Deaf 
as  a  post!  What  were  you  reading! 

Jo.    The  ' '  Illustrated  Catholic. ' ' 

CLEMENTINE.    Where  did  you  put  the  eggs? 

KAPS.    I  understand. 

KNEIRTJE.  [From  the  bedstead.]  Is  anyone 
there? 

64 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  65 

CLEMENTINE.    It's  me,  Clementine. 

KNEIBTJE.  [Rising.]  Hasn't  the  wind  gone  down 
yet? 

CLEMENTINE.  I've  brought  you  some  veal  soup, 
Kneir.  It's  delicious.  Well,  Almighty!  You've 
spilled  it  all  over. 

KAPS.  I'd  like  to  see  you  carry  a  full  pan  with 
the  sand  blowing  in  your  eyes. 

CLEMENTINE.  Well,  its  mighty  queer.  There  was 
twice  as  much  meat  in  it. 

KAPS.    What!    Can't  hear,  with  the  wind. 

KNEIKTJE.    Thank  you  kindly,  Miss. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Counting  the  eggs.]  One,  two, 
three,  four!  The  others? 

KAPS.  There's  five — and —  [Looking  at  his  hand, 
which  drips  with  egg  yolk.] — and 

CLEMENTINE.    Broken,  of  course ! 

KAPS.  [Bringing  out  his  handkerchief  and  purse 
covered  with  egg.]  I  put  them  away  so  carefully. 
What  destruction !  What  a  muss ! 

Jo.    [Laughing.]    Make  an  omelet  of  it. 

KAPS.  That's  because  you  pushed  against  me. 
Just  look  at  my  keys. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Laughing.]  He  calls  that  putting 
them  away  carefully.  You'd  better  go  home. 

KAPS.    [Peevishly.]    No,  that's  not  true. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Louder.]  You  may  go !  I  can  find 
the  way  back  alone ! 

KAPS.  My  purse,  my  handkerchief,  my  cork  screw. 
[Crossly.]  Goodnight.  [Off.] 

CLEMENTINE.  I  don 't  know  why  Father  keeps  that 
bookkeeper,  deaf,  and  cross.  Does  it  taste  good? 

KNEIRTJE.  Yes,  Miss.  You  must  thank  your 
mother. 

CLEMENTINE.  Indeed  I'll  not.  Pa  and  Ma  are 
obstinate.  They  haven't  forgotten  the  row  with 


66  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

your  sons  yet.  Mouth  shut,  or  I'll  get  a  scolding. 
May  Jo  go  to  the  beach  with  me  to  look  at  the  seal 
The  waves  have  never  been  so  high! 

Jo.    Yes,  I'll  go,  Miss. 

KNEIRTJE.  No,  don't  leave  me  alone.  Go  on  the 
beach  in  such  a  storm !  [Crash  outside,  she  screams.} 

Jo.    What  was  that! 

CLEMENTINE.  I  heard  something  break.  [Enter 
COBUS.] 

COB.    God  bless  me !    That  missed  me  by  a  hair. 

Jo.    Are  you  hurt? 

COB.  I  got  a  tap  aft  that  struck  the  spot.  Lucky 
my  head  wasn't  there !  The  tree  beside  the  pig  stye 
was  broken  in  two  like  a  pipe  stem. 

KNEIBTJE.    Did  it  come  down  on  the  pig  stye? 

COB.    I  believe  it  did. 

KNEIRTJE.  I'm  afraid  it's  fallen  in.  The  wood  is 
so  rotten. 

Jo.  Ach,  no!  Aunt  always  expects  the  worst. 
[Surprised.]  Uncle  Cobus,  how  do  you  come  to  be 
out,  after  eight  o'clock,  in  this  beastly  weather? 

COB.    To  fetch  the  doctor  for  Daan. 

CLEMENTINE.    Is  old  Daan  sick? 

COB.  Tja.  Old  age.  Took  to  his  bed  suddenly. 
Can't  keep  anything  on  his  stomach.  The  beans 
and  pork  gravy  he  ate 

CLEMENTINE.  Beans  and  pork  gravy  for  a  sick  old 
man? 

COB.  Tja.  The  matron  broils  him  a  chicken  or  a 
beefsteak — Eh?  She's  even  cross  because  she's  got 
to  beat  an  egg  for  his  breakfast.  This  afternoon  he 
was  delirious,  talking  of  setting  out  the  nets,  and 
paying  out  the  buoy  line.  I  sez  to  the  matron  "His 
time's  come."  "Look  out  or  yours  '11  come,"  sez 
she.  I  sez,  "The  doctor  should  be  sent  for."  "Mind 
your  own  business,"  sez  she,  "am  I  the  Matron  or 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  67 

are  you  f ' '  Then  I  sez,  *  *  You  're  the  matron. ' '  ' '  Well 
then,"  sez  she.  Just  now,  she  sez,  "You'd  better 
go  for  the  doctor."  As  if  it  couldn't  a  been  done 
this  afternoon.  I  go  to  the  doctor  and  the  doctor's 
out  of  town.  Now  I've  been  to  Simon  to  take  nie  to 
town  in  his  dog  car. 

Jo.    Is  Simon  coming  here? 

CLEMENTINE.  If  drunken  Simon  drives,  you're 
likely  to  roll  off  the  dyke. 

COB.    He  isn't  drunk  tonight. 

Jo.  Give  him  a  chalk  mark  for  that.  Must  the 
doctor  ride  in  the  dog  car?  Hahaha! 

COB.  Why  not  if  he  feels  like  it?  Shall  I  tell  you 
something?  Hey,  what  a  storm!  Listen!  Listen! 
The  tiles  will  soon  be  coming  down. 

Jo.    Go  on,  now,  tell  us  the  rest. 

COB.  What  I  want  to  say  is,  that  it's  a  blessing 
for  Daantje  he's  out  of  his  head,  'fraid  as  he's 
always  been  of  death.  Afraid! 

Jo.    So  is  everyone  else,  Cobus. 

COB.  Every  one?  That's  all  in  the  way  you  look 
at  it.  If  my  time  should  come  tomorrow,  then,  I 
think,  we  must  all !  The  waters  of  the  sea  will  not 
wash  away  that  fact.  God  has  given,  God  has  taken 
away.  Now,  don't  laugh,  think!  God  takes  us  and 
we  take  the  fish.  On  the  fifth  day  He  created  the 
Sea,  great  whales  and  the  moving  creatures  that 
abound  therein,  and  said:  "Be  fruitful,"  and  He 
blessed  them.  That  was  evening  and  that  was  morn- 
ing, that  was  the  fifth  day.  And  on  the  sixth  day 
He  created  man  and  said  also:  "Be  fruitful,"  and 
blessed  them.  That  was  again  evening  and  again 
morning,  that  was  the  sixth  day.  No,  now,  don't 
laugh.  You  must  think.  When  I  was  on  the  herring 
catch,  or  on  the  salting  voyage,  there  were  times 
when  I  didn't  dare  use  the  cleaning  knife.  Because 


68  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

when  you  shove  a  herring's  head  to  the  left  with 
your  thumb,  and  you  lift  out  the  gullet  with  the 
blade,  the  creature  looks  at  you  with  such  knowing 
eyes,  and  yet  you  clean  two  hundred  in  an  hour.  And 
when  you  cut  throats  out  of  fourteen  hundred  cod, 
that  makes  twenty-eight  hundred  eyes  that  look  at 
you!  Look!  Just  look.  Ask  me  how  many  fish 
have  I  killed?  I  had  few  equals  in  boning  and  cut- 
ting livers.  Tja,  tja,  and  how  afraid  they  all  were ! 
Afraid!  They  looked  up  at  the  clouds  as  if  they 
were  saying:  "How  about  this  now.  He  blessed 
us  same  as  He  blessed  you!"  I  say:  we  take  the 
fish  and  God  takes  us.  We  must  all,  the  beasts  must, 
and  the  men  must,  and  because  we  all  must,  none 
of  us  should — now,  that's  just  as  if  you'd  pour  a 
full  barrel  into  an  empty  one.  I'd  be  afraid  to  be 
left  alone  in  the  empty  barrel,  with  every  one  else 
in  the  other  barrel.  No,  being  afraid  is  no  good; 
being  afraid  is  standing  on  your  toes  and  looking 
over  the  edge. 

KNEIETJB.  Is  that  a  way  to  talk  at  night?  You 
act  as  if  you'd  had  a  dram. 

COB.    A  dram!    No,  not  a  drop!    Is  that  Simon? 

KNEIBTJB.  [Listening  between  the  bedsteads.] 
Am  I  right  about  the  pig  stye  or  not?  Hear  how  the 
poor  animal  is  going  on  out  there.  I'm  sure  the 
wall  has  fallen  in. 

Jo.    Let  me  go  then.    Don't  you  go  outside! 

KNEIBTJE.    Ach,  don't  bother  me!    [Off.] 

Jo.  You  pour  yourself  out  a  bowl,  Uncle  Cobus ! 
I'll  give  her  a  helping  hand. 

COB.    Take  care  of  the  lamp  chimney. 

CLEMENTINE.  [At  the  window.]  Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 
What  a  gale!  [Returning  to  the  table.]  Cobus,  I'll 
thank  God  when  the  Good  Hope  is  safely  in. 

COB.    Tja.     No  ship  is  safe  tonight.     But  the 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  69 

Hope  is  an  old  ship,  and  old  ships  are  the  last  to  go 
down. 

CLEMENTINE.     That's  what  you  say. 

COB.  No,  that's  what  every  old  sailor  says.  Have 
a  bowl,  Miss? 

CLEMENTINE.  [After  a  silence,  staring.]  All  the 
same,  I  shall  pray  God  tonight. 

COB.  That's  real  good  of  yon,  Miss.  But  the 
Jacoba  is  out  and  the  Mathilda  is  out  and  the  Ex- 
pectation is  out.  Why  should  you  pray  for  one  ship  ? 

CLEMENTINE.  The  Good  Hope  is  rotten — so — so 
[Stops  anxiously.] 

COB.     [Drinking  coffee.]     Who  said  that1? 

CLEMENTINE.  That's  what Why — that's 

what I  thought It  just  occurred  to  me. 

COB.    No,  you  are  lying  now. 

CLEMENTINE.    Oh,  you  are  polite! 

COB.  If  the  Good  Hope  was  rotten,  then  your 
father  would 

CLEMENTINE.  Oh,  shut  your  fool  mouth,  you'll 
make  Kneir  anxious.  Quick,  Kneir,  shut  the  door, 
for  the  lamp. 

KNEIBTJE.  [Entering  with  Jo.]  Good  thing  we 
looked. 

Jo.    The  stye  had  blown  down. 

KNEIBTJE.  Oh,  my  poor  boys!  How  scared 
Barend  will  be,  and  just  as  they're  homeward  bound. 

Jo.  Coffee,  Mother?  Aunt!  Funny,  isn't  it,  eh? 
I  keep  saying  Mother.  You  take  another  cup,  Miss. 
The  evening  is  still  so  long  and  so  gloomy — Yes? 
[Enter  SIMON  and  MARIETJE,  who  is  crying.] 

SIMON.  Good  evening.  Salamanders,  what  a 
wind!  Stop  your  damn  howling 

KNEIBTJE.    What's  the  matter? 

MABIETJE.    When  I  think  of  Mees. 

KNEIKTGE.    Now,  now,  look  at  Jo.    Her  lover  is 


70  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

also — be  a  good  seaman's  wife.  Foolish  girl !  Don't 
be  childish.  Give  her  a  bowl  to  cheer  her  up. 

MABIETJE.    It's  going  into  the  sixth  week. 

COB.  Don't  cry  before  you're  hurt!  You  girls 
haven't  had  any  trouble  yet!  Is  the  carriage  at  the 
door? 

SIMON.  I  'm  damned  if  I  like  the  trip.  If  it  wasn  't 
for  Daan 

Jo.    Here,  this  will  warm  you  up,  Simon. 

SIMON.  [Drinking.}  Curse  it,  that's  hot.  It's 
happened  to  me  before  with  the  dog  car,  in  a  tempest 
like  this.  It  was  for  Katrien.  She  was  expecting 
every  minute.  I  was  upset  twice,  car  and  all.  And 
when  the  doctor  came,  Katrien  was  dead  and  the 
child  was  dead,  but  if  you  ask  me,  I'd  rather  sit  in 
my  dog  car  tonight  than  to  be  on  the  sea. 

KNEIBTJE.    Yes !    Yes ! 

Jo.    Another  bowl! 

SIMON.  No,  don't  let  us  waste  our  time.  Eeady, 
Cobus  * 

COB.  If  you'll  only  be  careful!  Good  night,  all! 
[Both  exit.} 

Jo.  Jesus!  Don't  sit  around  so  solemn!  Let's 
talk,  then  we  won't  think  of  anything. 

MABIETJE.  Last  night  was  stormy,  too,  and  I  had 
such  a  bad  dream.  It  was  so  awful. 

CLEMENTINE.    Foolish  girl !    Dreams  are  not  real. 

MABIETJE.  I  can't  rightly  say  it  was  a  dream. 
There  was  a  rap  on  the  window,  once.  I  lay  still. 
Again  a  rap,  then  I  got  up.  Nothing  to  be  seen. 
Nothing.  Soon  as  I  lay  down  there  came  another 
rap,  so.  [Raps  on  the  table  with  her  knuckles.] 
And  then  I  saw  Mees,  his  face  was  pale,  pale  as — 
God!  Oh,  God!  and  there  was  nothing.  Nothing 
but  the  wind. 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  71 

KNEIBTJE.  [In  deadly  fear.]  Rapped  three  times? 
Three  times? 

MABIETJE.    Each  time — like  that,  so [Raps.] 

Jo.  You  stupid,  you,  to  scare  the  old  woman  into 
a  fit  with  your  raps.  [A  rap.  All  startled.  Enter 
SAABT  and  TKUUS.] 

SAABT.  How  scared  you  all  look!  Good  evening, 
Miss. 

TBUUS.    May  we  come  in  awhile? 

Jo.    Hey!    Thank  God  you've  come. 

SAABT.  Nasty  outside !  My  ears  and  neck  full  of 
sand,  and  it 's  cold.  Just  throw  a  couple  of  blocks  on 
the  fire. 

TBUUS.  I  couldn't  stand  it  at  home  either,  chil- 
dren asleep,  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  the  howling  of 
the  wind.  Two  mooring  posts  were  washed  away. 

KNEIB.     [Darning  a  sock.]     Two  mooring  posts! 

SAABT.    Talk  about  something  else. 

Jo.  Yes,  I  say  so  too.  What's  that  to  us 

Milk  and  sugar?  Yes,  eh? 

SAABT.  What  a  question!  I  take  coffee  without 
sugar ! 

Jo.    Well,  Geert  never  takes  sugar. 

CLEMENTINE.  Your  little  son  was  a  brave  boy, 
Truus.  I  can  see  him  now  as  he  stood  waving  good- 
bye. 

TBUUS.  [Knitting.]  Yes,  that  boy's  a  treasure, 
barely  twelve.  You  should  have  seen  him  two  and 
a  half  months  ago.  When  the  Anna  came  in  without 
Ari.  The  child  behaved  like  an  angel,  just  like  a 
grown  man.  He  would  sit  up  evenings  to  chat  with 
me,  the  child  knows  more  than  I  do.  The  lamb,  hope 
he's  not  been  awfully  sea  sick. 

SAABT.  [Knitting.]  Now,  you  may  not  believe 
it,  but  red  spectacles  keep  you  from  being  sea  sick. 


72  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

Jo.  [Mending  a  flannel  garment.]  Hahaha!  Did 
you  ever  try  it  yourself  You're  like  the  doctors, 
they  let  others  swallow  their  doses. 

SAART.  Many's  the  night  I've  slept  on  board; 
when  my  husband  was  alive  I  went  along  on  many  a 
voyage.  ' 

Jo.    Should  like  to  have  seen  you  in  oil  skins. 

CLEMENTINE.    Were  you  ever  married,  Saart  f 

SAABT.  Hear,  now,  the  young  lady  is  flattering 
me.  I'm  not  so  bad  looking  as  that,  Miss.  Yes,  I 
was  married.  Spliced  good  and  fast,  too !  He  was 
a  good  man.  An  excellent  man.  Now  and  then, 
when  things  didn't  go  to  suit  him,  without  speaking 
ill  of  the  dead,  I  may  say,  he  couldn  't  keep  his  paws 
at  home;  then  he'd  smash  things.  I  still  have  a 
coffee  pot  without  a  handle  I  keep  as  a  remembrance. 
— I  wouldn't  part  with  it  for  a  rix  dollar. 

CLEMENTINE.  I  won't  even  offer  you  a  guilder! 
Hahaha ! 

Jo.  Say,  you're  such  a  funny  story  teller,  tell  us 
about  the  Harlemmer  oil,  Saart. 

SAABT.  Yes,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Harlemmer  oil 
I  might  not  have  been  a  widow.  I  could  marry 
again ! 

CLEMENTINE.    How  odd ! 

Jo.    You  must  hear  her  talk.    Come,  drink  faster ! 

SAABT.  I'm  full  to  the  brim!  What  are  you  star- 
ing at  Kneirt  That's  just  the  wind.  Now,  then,  my 
man  was  a  comical  chap.  Never  was  another  like 
him.  I'd  bought  him  a  knife  in  a  leather  sheath, 
paid  a  good  price  for  it  too,  and  when  he  'd  come  back 
in  five  weeks  and  I'd  ask  him :  "Jacob,  have  you  lost 
your  knife?"  he'd  say,  "I  don't  know  about  my 
knife — you  never  gave  me  a  knife."  He  was  that 
scatter-brained.  But  when  he'd  undress  himself  for 
the  first  time  in  five  weeks,  and  pulled  off  his  rubber 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  73 

boots,  bang,  the  knife  would  fall  on  the  floor.  He 
hadn't  felt  it  in  all  that  time. 

CLEMENTINE.  Didn't  take  off  his  rubber  boots  in 
five  weeks! 

SAART.  Then  I  had  to  scrub  'im  with  soap  and 
soda;  he  hadn't  seen  water,  and  covered  with  ver- 
min. 

CLEMENTINE.    Hey !    Ugh ! 

SAART.  Wish  I  could  get  a  cent  a  dozen  for  all  the 
lice  on  board;  they  get  them  thrown  in  with  their 
share  of  the  cargo.  Hahaha!  Now  then,  his  last 
voyage  a  sheet  of  water  threw  him  against  the  bul- 
warks just  as  they  pulled  the  mizzen  staysail  to  lar- 
board, and  his  leg  was  broke.  Then  they  were  in  a 
fix —  The  skipper  could  poultice  and  cut  a  corn,  but 
he  couldn't  mend  a  broken  leg.  Then  they  wanted 
to  shove  a  plank  under  it,  but  Jacob  wanted  Har- 
lemmer  oil  rubbed  on  his  leg.  Every  day  he  had 
them  rub  it  with  Harlemmer  oil,  and  again  Harlem- 
mer  oil,  and  some  more  Harlemmer  oil.  Ach,  the 
poor  thing !  When  they  came  in  his  leg  was  a  sight. 
.You  shouldn't  have  asked  me  to  tell  it. 

Jo.    Last  time  you  laughed  about  it  yourself. 

SAART.  Now,  yes;  you  can't  bring  the  dead  back 
to  life.  And  when  you  think  of  it,  it 's  a  dirty  shame 
I  can 't  marry  again. 

CLEMENTINE.    Why  not?    Who  prevents  you? 

SAART.  Who?  Those  that  pieced  together  the 
silly  laws !  A  year  later  the  Changeable  went  down 
with  man  and  mouse.  Then,  bless  me,  you'd  sup- 
pose, as  your  husband  was  dead,  for  he'd  gone  along 
with  his  leg  and  a  half,  you  could  marry  another 
man.  No,  indeed.  First  you  must  advertise  for 
him  in  the  newspapers  three  times,  and  then  if  in 
three  times  he  don't  turn  up,  you  may  go  and  get 
a  new  license. 


74  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

TBUTTS.  [Monotonously  knitting.]  I  don't  think 
I'll  ever  marry  again. 

SAABT.  That's  not  surprisin'  when  you've  been 
married  twice  already;  if  you  don't  know  the  men 
by  this  time. 

TBUUS.  I  wish  I  could  talk  about  things  the  way 
you  do.  No,  it's  anxiety.  With  my  first  it  was  a 
horror;  with  my  second  you  know  yourselves. 

CLBMENTINE.  Go  on,  Truus.  I  could  sit  up  all 
night  hearing  tales  of  the  sea. 

KNEIBTJE.  Don't  tell  stories  of  suffering  and 
death 

SAABT.  Hey !  How  fretful  you  are !  Come,  pour 
us  some  more  coffee. 

TBUUS.  [Quietly  knitting  and  speaking  in  a  tone- 
less voice.]  Ach,  it  couldn't  have  happened  here, 
Kneir.  We  lived  in  Vlardingen  then,  and  I'd  been 
married  a  year  without  any  children.  No,  Pietje 
was  Ari's  child — and  he  went  away  on  the  Magnet. 
Yes,  it  was  the  Magnet.  On  the  herring  catch. 
That's  gone  up  now.  And  you  understand  what  hap- 
pened; else  I  wouldn't  have  got  acquainted  with 
Ari  and  be  living  next  door  to  you  now.  The  Mag- 
net stayed  on  the  sands  or  some  other  place.  But 
I  didn't  know  that  then,  and  so  didn't  think  of  it. 

Jo.    Ssst!    Keep  still! 

SAABT.    It's  nothing.    Only  the  wind. 

TBUUS.  Now  in  Vlardingen  they  have  a  tower  and 
on  the  tower  a  lookout. 

MABIETJE.    Same  as  at  Maasslius. 

TBUUS.  And  this  lookout  hoists  a  red  ball  when 
he  sees  a  lugger  or  a  trawler  or  other  boat  in  the 
distance.  And  when  he  sees  who  it  is,  he  lets  down 
the  ball,  runs  to  the  ship  owner  and  the  families 
to  warn  them;  that's  to  say:  the  Albert  Koster  or 
the  Good  Hope  is  coming.  Now  mostly  he's  no  need 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  75 

to  warn  the  family.  For,  as  soon  as  the  ball  is 
hoisted  in  the  tower,  the  children  run  in  the  streets 
shouting,  I  did  it,  too,  as  a  child :  * '  The  ball  is  up ! 
The  ball  is  up!"  Then  the  women  run,  and  wait 
below  for  the  lookout  to  come  down,  and  when  it's 
their  ship  they  give  him  pennies. 

CLEMENTINE.    And  then 

TEUUS.  [Staring  into  the  fire.]  And — and — the 
Magnet  with  my  first  husband,  didn't  I  say  I'd  been 
married  a  year?  The  Magnet  stayed  out  seven 
weeks — with  provisions  for  six — and  each  time  the 
children  shouted:  "The  ball  is  up,  Truus!  The 
ball  is  up,  Truus!"  Then  I  ran  like  mad  to  the 
tower.  No  one  looked  at  me.  They  all  knew  why 
I  ran,  and  when  the  lookout  came  down  I  could  have 
torn  the  words  out  of  his  mouth.  But  I  would  say: 
"Have  you  tidings — tidings  of  the  Magnet  I"  Then 
he'd  say:  "No,  it's  the  Maria,"  or  the  Alert,  or  the 
Concordia,  and  then  I'd  drag  myself  away  slowly, 
so  slowly,  crying  and  thinking  of  my  husband.  My 
husband !  And  each  day,  when  the  children  shouted, 
I  got  a  shock  through  my  brain,  and  each  day  I 
stood  by  the  tower,  praying  that  God — but  the  Mag- 
net did  not  come — did  not  come.  At  the  last  I  didn't 
dare  to  go  to  the  tower  any  more  when  the  ball  was 
hoisted.  No  longer  dared  to  stand  at  the  door  wait- 
ing, if  perhaps  the  lookout  himself  would  bring  the 
message.  That  lasted  two  months — two  months — 
and  then — well,  then  I  believed  it.  [Toneless  voice.] 
The  fish  are  dearly  paid  for. 

CLEMENTINE.  [After  a  silence.]  And  An? — 
What  happened  to  him? 

TRUUS.    Ari ! 

Jo.    Now,  that's  so  short  a  time  since. 

TRUUS.  [Calmly.]  Ach,  child,  I'd  love  to  talk 
about  it  to  every  one,  all  day  long.  When  you've 


76  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

been  left  with  six  children — a  good  man — never  gave 
me  a  harsh  word — never.  In  two  hours  he  was  gone. 
A  blow  from  the  capstan  bar.  He  never  spoke  again. 
Had  it  happened  six  days  later  they  would  have 
brought  him  in.  We  would  have  buried  him  here. 
The  sharks  already  swam  about  the  ship.  They 
smell  when  there's  a  corpse  aboard. 

KNEIRTJE.  Yes,  that's  true,  you  never  see  them 
otherwise. 

TRUUS.  [Resigned.']  You'll  never  marry  a  fish- 
erman, Miss;  but  it's  sad,  sad;  God,  so  sad!  when 
they  lash  your  dear  one  to  a  plank,  wrapped  in  a 
piece  of  sail  with  a  stone  in  it,  three  times  around 
the  big  mast,  and  then,  one,  two,  three,  in  God's 
name.  The  fish  are  dearly  paid  for.  [Sobs  softly.] 

Jo.     [Rising  and  embracing  her.]     Now,  Truus! 

SAAET.  Pour  her  out  another  bowl.  [To  MA- 
RIETJE.]  Are  you  crying  again?  She  keeps  think- 
ing of  Mees  ? 

MARIETJE.  No,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Mees,  I  was 
thinking  of  my  little  brother,  who  was  also  drowned. 

Jo.     [Nervously.]     You  all  seem  to  enjoy  it. 

CLEMENTINE.    Wasn't  that  on  the  herring  catch! 

MARIETJE.  [Going  on  with  her  knitting.]  His 
second  voyage,  a  blow  from  the  fore  sail,  and  he 
lay  overboard.  He  was  rope  caster.  The  skipper 
reached  him  the  herring  shovel,  but  it  was  smooth 
and  it  slipped  from  his  hands.  Then  Jerusalem,  the 
mate,  held  out  the  broom  to  him — again  he  grabbed 
hold.  The  three  of  them  pulled  him  up;  then  the 
broom  gave  way,  he  fell  back  into  the  waves,  and 
for  the  third  time  the  skipper  threw  him  a  line. 
God  wanted  my  little  brother,  the  line  broke,  and  the 
end  went  down  with  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

CLEMENTINE.  Frightful!  frightful! — Grabbed  it 
three  times,  and  lost  it  three  times. 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  77 

MAKIETJE.  As  if  the  child  knew  what  was  coining 
in  the  morning,  he  had  lain  crying  all  night.  So  the 
skipper  told.  Crying  for  Mother,  who  was  sick. 
When  the  skipper  tried  to  console  him,  he  said:  "No, 
skipper,  even  if  Mother  does  get  well,  I  eat  my  last 
herring  today."  That's  what  started  Father  to 
drinking. 

CLEMENTINE.    Now,  Marietje. 

MARIETJE.  No,  truly,  Miss,  when  he  came  back 
from  Pieterse's  with  the  money,  Toontje's  share  of 
the  cargo  as  rope  caster,  eighteen  guilders  and  thir- 
ty-five cents  for  five  and  a  half  weeks.  Then  he 
simply  acted  insane,  he  threw  the  money  on  the 
ground,  then  he  cursed  at — I  won't  repeat  what — 
at  everything.  And  I,  how  old  was  I  then?  Four- 
teen. I  picked  up  the  money,  crying.  We  needed  it. 
Mother's  sickness  and  burial  had  cost  a  lot.  Eight- 
een guilders  is  a  heap  of  money,  a  big  heap. 

Jo.  Eighteen  guilders  for  your  child,  eighteen — 
[Listening  in  alarm  to  the  blasts  of  the  wind.] 
Hush!  keep  still! 

SAAKT.  Nothing,  nothing  at  all!  What  makes 
you  so  afraid  tonight? 

Jo.    Afraid?    I  afraid?    No,  say,  Hahaha! 

KNEIBTJE.  [Staring  straight  ahead.]  Yes,  yes, 
if  the  water  could  only  speak. 

CLEMENTINE.  Come  now,  you  tell  a  tale  of  the  sea. 
You've  had  so  much  experience. 

KNEIKTJE.  A  tale?  Ach,  Miss,  life  on  the  sea  is 
no  tale.  Nothing  between  yourself  and  eternity  but 
the  thickness  of  a  one-inch  plank.  It's  hard  on  the 
men,  and  hard  on  the  women.  Yesterday  I  passed 
by  the  garden  of  the  Burgomaster.  They  sat  at 
table  and  ate  cod  from  which  the  steam  was  rising, 
and  the  children  sat  with  folded  hands  saying  grace. 
Then,  thought  I,  in  my  ignorance — if  it  was  wrong, 


78  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

may  God  forgive  me — that  it  wasn't  right  of  the 
Burgomaster — not  right  of  him — and  not  right  of 
the  others.  For  the  wind  blew  so  hard  out  of  the 
East,  and  those  fish  came  out  of  the  same  water 
in  which  our  dead — how  shall  I  say  it? — in  which 
our  dead — you  understand  me.  [A  pause.]  It  was 
foolish  to  think  such  nonsense.  It  is  our  living, 
and  we  must  not  rebel  against  our  living. 

TRUUS.    Yes,  I  know  how  that  is. 

KNEIRTJE.  [Quietly  darning.]  My  husband  was 
a  fisherman.  One  out  of  a  thousand.  When  the 
lead  was  dropped  he  could  tell  by  the  taste  of  the 
sand  where  they  were.  Often  in  the  night  he'd  say 
we  are  on  the  56th  and  on  the  56th  they'd  be.  And 
what  experiences  he  had  sailing!  Once  he  drifted 
about  two  days  and  nights  in  a  boat  with  two  others. 
That  was  the  time  they  were  taking  in  the  net  and 
a  fog  came  up  so  thick  they  couldn't  see  the  buoys, 
let  alone  find  the  lugger.  Two  days  and  nights 
without  food.  Later  when  the  boat  went  to  pieces — 
you  should  have  heard  him  tell  it — how  he  and  old 
Dirk  swam  to  an  overturned  rowboat ;  he  climbed  on 
top.  "I'll  never  forget  that  night,"  said  he.  Dirk 
was  too  old  or  tired  to  get  a  hold.  Then  my  hus- 
band stuck  his  knife  into  the  boat.  Dirk  tried  to 
grasp  it  as  he  was  sinking,  and  he  clutched  in  such 
a  way  that  three  of  his  fingers  hung  down.  Yes! 
yes!  It  all  happened.  Then  at  the  risk  of  his  own 
life,  my  husband  pulled  Dirk  up  onto  the  overturned 
boat.  So  the  two  of  them  drifted  in  the  night,  and 
Dirk — old  Dirk — from  loss  of  blood  or  from  fear, 
went  insane.  He  sat  and  glared  at  my  husband 
with  the  eyes  of  a  cat.  He  raved  of  the  devil  that 
was  in  him.  Of  Satan,  and  the  blood,  my  husband 
said,  ran  all  over  the  boat — the  waves  were  kept 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  79 

busy  washing  it  away.  Just  at  dawn  Dirk  slipped 
off,  insane  as  he  was.  My  man  was  picked  up  by  a 
freighter  that  sailed  by.  But  it  was  no  use,  three 
years  later — that 's  twelve  years  ago  now — the  Clem- 
entine— named  after  you  by  your  father — stranded 
on  the  Doggerbanks  with  him  and  my  two  oldest. 
Of  what  happened  to  them,  I  know  nothing,  nothing 
at  all.  Never  a  buoy,  or  a  hatch,  washed  ashore. 
Nothing  more,  nothing.  You  can 't  realize  it  at  first, 
but  after  so  many  years  one  can't  recall  their  faces 
any  more,  and  that's  a  blessing.  For  hard  it  would 
be  if  one  remembered.  Now,  I've  told  my  story. 
Every  sailor's  wife  has  something  like  this  in  her 
family,  it's  not  new.  Truus  is  right:  "The  fish  are 
dearly  paid  for."  Are  you  crying,  Miss? 

CLEMENTINE.  [Bursting  out.]  God !  If  any  ships 
should  go  down  tonight. 

KNEIRTJE.  We  are  all  in  God 's  hands,  and  God  is 
great  and  good. 

Jo.  [Springing  up  wildly.]  Ships  go  down! 
Ships  go  down!  The  one  howls.  The  other  cries. 
I  wish  I'd  sat  alone  tonight.  [Beating  her  head 
with  her  fists.]  You're  all  driving  me  mad,  mad, 
mad! 

CLEMENTINE.     [Amazed.]     Jo,  what  ails  you? 

Jo.  [Passionately.]  Her  husband  and  her  little 
brother — and  my  poor  uncle — those  horrible  stories 
— instead  of  cheering  us  up!  Ask  me  now  for  my 
story!  [Shrieking.]  My  father  was  drowned, 
drowned,  drowned,  drowned!  There  are  others — 
all — drowned,  drowned ! — and — you  are  all  miserable 
wretches — you  are!  [Violently  bangs  the  door  shut 
as  she  runs  out.] 

TRUUS.     [Anxiously.]     I  believe  she's  afraid. 

MARIETJE.    Shall  I  go  after  her? 


80  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KNEIRTJE.  No,  child,  she  will  quiet  down  by  her- 
self. Nervous  strain  of  the  last  two  days.  Are  you 
going  now,  Miss? 

CLEMENTINE.  It  has  grown  late,  Kneir,  and  your 
niece — your  niece  was  a  little  unmannerly.  No,  I'm 
not  offended.  Who  is  going  to  take  me  home? 

SAABT.  If  one  goes,  we  all  go.  Together  we  won't 
blow  away.  Good  night,  Kneir. 

MARIETJE.     [Depressed.]   Good  night,  Aunt  Kneir. 

KNEIBTJE.  Thank  you  again,  Miss,  for  the  soup 
and  eggs. 

TBUUS.  Are  you  coming  to  drink  a  bowl  with  me 
tomorrow  night  ?  Please  say  yes. 

KNEIBTJE.  Well,  perhaps.  Good  night,  Miss. 
Good  night,  Marietje.  Good  night,  Saart.  If  you 
see  Jo  send  her  in  at  once.  [All  go  out  except 
KNEIBTJE.  She  clears  away  the  cups.  A  fierce  wind 
howls,  shrieking  about  the  house.  She  listens 
anxiously  at  the  window,  shoves  her  chair  close  to 
the  chimney,  stares  into  the  fire.  Her  lips  move 
in  a  muttered  prayer  while  she  fingers  a  rosary. 
Jo  enters,  drops  into  a  chair  by  the  window  and 
nervously  unpins  her  shawl.] 

KNEIBTJE.  You'd  better  go  to  bed.  You  are  all 
unstrung.  What  an  outburst !  And  that  dear  child 
that  came  out  in  the  storm  to  bring  me  soup  and 
eggs. 

Jo.  [Roughly.]  Your  sons  are  out  in  the  storm 
for  her  and  her  father. 

KNEIBTJE.    And  for  us. 

Jo.  And  for  us.  [A  silence.]  The  sea  is  so 
wild. 

KNEIBTJE.    Have  you  been  to  look? 

Jo.  [Anxiously.]  I  couldn't  stand  against  the 
wind.  Half  the  guard  rail  is  washed  away,  the 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  81 

pier  is  under  water.  [A  silence.  KNEIBTJE  prays.] 
Oh !  Oh !  I  'm  dead  from  those  miserable  stories ! 

KNEIETJE.  You're  not  yourself  tonight.  You 
never  went  on  like  this  when  Geert  sailed  with  the 
Navy.  Go  to  bed  and  pray.  Prayer  is  the  only 
consolation.  A  sailor's  wife  must  not  be  weak.  In 
a  month  or  two  it  will  storm  again ;  each  time  again. 
And  there  are  many  fishermen  on  the  sea  besides  our 
boys.  [Her  speech  sinks  into  a  soft  murmur.  Her 
old  fingers  handle  the  rosary.] 

Jo.  Barend,  we  almost  drove  him  away!  I 
taunted  him  to  the  last.  [Seeing  that  KNEIETJE 
prays,  she  walks  to  the  window  wringing  her  hands, 
pulls  up  the  curtain  uncertainly,  stares  through  the 
window  panes.  Then  she  cautiously  opens  a  window 
shutter.  The  wind  blows  the  curtain  on  high,  the 
lamp  dances,  the  light  puffs  out.  She  swiftly  closes 
the  window.] 

KNEIETJE.  [Angry  from  fear.]  Have  you  gone 
crazy!  Keep  your  paws  off  that  window! 

Jo.     [Moaning.]     Oh!  oh!  oh! 

KNEIETJE.  [Terrified.]  Shut  your  mouth !  Look 
for  the  matches  1  Not  so  slow !  Quick !  Beside  the 
soap  dish.  [A  silence.]  Have  you  got  them?  [Jo 
lights  the  lamp,  shivering  with  fear.]  I'm  com- 
pletely chilled.  [To  Jo,  who  crouches  sobbing  by 
the  chimney.]  Why  do  you  sit  there? 

Jo.    I'm  afraid. 

KNEIETJE.     [Anxiously.]     You  must  not  be. 

Jo.    If  anything  happens — then — then 

KNEIETJE.    Be  sensible.    Undress  yourself. 

Jo.    No,  I  shall  stay  here  all  night. 

KNEIETJE.  Now,  I  ask  you,  how  will  it  be  when 
you're  married?  When  you  are  a  mother  yourself? 

Jo.     [Passionately.]     You  don't  know  what  you 


82  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

say!  You  don't  know  what  you  say,  Aunt  Kneir! 
If  Geert — [Stops,  panting.']  I  didn't  dare  tell  you. 

KNEIRTJE.  Is  it  between  you  and  Geert?  [Jo 
sobs  loudly.]  That  was  not  good  of  you — not  good 
« — to  have  secrets.  Your  lover — your  husband — is 
my  son.  [A  silence,  the  wind  shrieks.]  Don't  stare 
that  way  into  the  fire.  Don't  cry  any  more.  I  shall 
not  speak  any  hard  words.  Even  if  it  was  wrong 
of  you  and  of  him.  Come  and  sit  opposite  to  me, 
then  together  we  will — [Lays  her  prayerbook  on  the 
table.] 

Jo.     [Despairingly.]     I  don't  want  to  pray. 

KNEIRTJE.     Don 't  want  to  pray  f 

Jo.     [Excitedly.]     If  anything  happens— 

KNEIBTJE.     [Vehemently.]     Nothing  will  happen ! 

Jo.  [Wildly.]  If  anything — anything — anything 
— then  I'll  never  pray  again,  never  again.  Then 
there  is  no  God.  No  Mother  Mary — then  there  is 
nothing — nothing 

KNEIRTJE.     [Anxiously.]     Don't  talk  like  that. 

Jo.    What  good  is  a  child  without  a  husband ! 

KNEIBTJE.    How  dare  you  say  that? 

Jo.  [Beating  her  head  on  the  table.]  The  wind ! 
It  drives  me  mad,  mad! 

KNEIRTJE.  [Opens  the  prayerbook,  touches  Jo's 
arm.  Jo  looks  up,  sobbing  passionately,  sees  the 
prayerbook,  shakes  her  head  fiercely.  Again  ivail- 
ing,  drops  to  the  floor,  which  she  beats  with  her 
hands.  KNEIRTJE 's  trembling  voice  sounds.]  Oh 
Merciful  God !  I  trust !  With  a  firm  faith,  I  trust. 
[The  wind  races  with  ivild  lashings  about  the  house.] 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV. 

[An  old-fashioned  office.  Left,  office  door,  sepa- 
rated from  the  main  office  by  a  wooden  railing.  Be- 
tween this  door  and  railing  are  two  benches;  an  old 
cupboard.  In  the  background;  three  windows  with 
view  of  the  sunlit  sea.  In  front  of  the  middle  win- 
dow a  standing  desk  and  high  stool.  Right,  writing 
table  with  telephone — a  safe,  an  inside  door.  On 
the  walls,  notices  of  wreckage,  insurance,  maps,  etc. 
In  the  center  a  round  iron  stove.} 

[KAPS,  Bos  and  MATHILDE  discovered.} 

MATHILDE.    Clemens ! 

KAPS.  [Reading,  with  pipe  in  his  mouth.]  "The 
following  wreckage,  viz. :  2,447  ribs,  marked  Kusta ; 
ten  sail  sheets,  marked  *M.  S.  G.' 

MATHILDE.    Stop  a  moment,  Kaps. 

KAPS.    "Four  deck  beams,  two  spars,  five" 

MATHILDE.  [Giving  him  a  tap.]  Finish  your 
reading  later. 

KAPS.    Yes,  Mevrouw. 

Bos.     [Impatiently.]     I  have  no  time  now. 

MATHILDE.  Then  make  time.  I  have  written  the 
circular  for  the  tower  bell.  Say,  ring  up  the  Bur- 
gomaster. 

Bos.  [Ringing  impatiently.']  Quick!  Connect  me 
with  the  Burgomaster!  Yes!  This  damn  bother 
while  I'm  busy.  Up  to  my  ears  in — [Sweetly.]  Are 
you  there?  My  little  wife  asks 

MATHILDE.  If  Mevrouw  will  come  to  the  telephone 
about  the  circular. 

Bos.  [Irritably.]  Yes !  yes !  'Not  so  long  drawn 
— [Sweetly.]  If  Mevrouw  will  come  to  the  tele- 
phone a  moment  ?  Just  so,  Burgomaster, — the  ladies 

83 


84  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

— hahahal  That's  a  good  one.  [Curtly.}  Now? 
What  do  you  want  to  say?  Cut  it  short.  [To  MA- 
THILDE.] 

MATHILDE.  Here,  read  this  circular  out  loud. 
Then  it  can  go  to  the  printers. 

Bos.  [Angrily.}  That  whole  sheet!  Are  you 
crazy?  Do  you  think  I  haven't  anything  on  my 
mind?  That  damned 

MATHILDE.    Keep  your  temper !    Kaps ! 

Bos.  Go  to  hell!  [Sweetly.}  Yes,  Mevrouw.  To- 
morrow. My  wife?  No,  she  can't  come  to  the  tele- 
phone herself,  she  doesn't  know  how.  [Irritably.} 
Where  is  the  rag?  Hurry  up!  [Reaches  out  hand 
for  paper.  MATHILDE  hands  it  to  him.}  My  wife 
has  written  the  circular  for  the  tower  bell.  Are  you 
listening?  [Beads.}  " Date,  postmark,  MM. "  WTiat 
did  you  say?  You  would  rather  have  L.  S.?  Yes, 
yes,  quite  right.  Do  you  hear?  [Reads.}  "You 
are  no  doubt  acquainted  with  the  new  church." — 
She  says,  "No,"  the  stupid!  I  am  reading,  Mev- 
rouw, again.  "You  are  no  doubt  acquainted  with 
the  new  church.  The  church  has,  as  you  know,  a 
high  tower;  that  high  tower  points  upward,  and 
that  is  good,  that  is  fortunate,  and  truly  necessary 
for  many  children  of  our  generation" 

MATHILDE.    Read  more  distinctly. 

Bos.  [To  MATHILDE.]  Shut  your  mouth.  Par- 
don, I  was  speaking  to  my  bookkeeper.  [In  tele- 
phone.} Yes — yes — ha,  ha,  ha — [Reads  again  from 
paper.}  "But  that  tower  could  do  something  else 
that  also  is  good.  Yes,  and  very  useful.  It  can 
mark  the  time  for  us  children  of  the  times.  That  it 
does  not  do.  It  stands  there  since  1882  and  has 
never  answered  to  the  question,  'What  time  is  it?' 
That  it  should  do.  It  was  indeed  built  for  it,  there 
are  four  places  visible  for  faces;  for  years  in  all 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  85 

sorts  of  ways" — Did  you  say  anything?  No? — "for 
years  the  wish  has  been  expressed  by  the  surround- 
ing-inhabitants that  they  might  have  a  clock — About 
three  hundred  guilders  are  needed.  Who  will  help? 
The  Committee,  Mevrouw" — What  did  you  say? 
Yes,  you  know  the  names,  of  course.  Yes,  very, 
nicely  worded?  Yes — Yes — All  the  ladies  of  the 
Committee  naturally  sign  for  the  same  amount,  a 
hundred  guilders  each  ?  Yes — Yes — Very  well — My 
wife  will  be  at  home,  Mevrouw.  [Rings  off  angrily.'] 
Damned  nonsense ! — a  hundred  guilders  gone  to  the 
devil!  What  is  it  to  you  if  there's  a  clock  on  the 
damn  thing  or  not? 

MATHILDE.  [Turns  away.~\  I'll  let  you  fry  in 
your  own  fat. 

Bos.  She'll  be  here  in  her  carriage  in  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

MATHILDE.  Bejour!  bejour!  If  you  drank  less 
grog  in  the  evenings  you  wouldn't  have  such  a  bad 
temper  in  the  mornings.  Just  hand  me  five  guilders. 

Bos.  No,  no!  You  took  five  guilders  out  of  my 
purse  this  morning  while  I  was  asleep.  I  can  keep 

MATHILDE.  I  take  a  rix  dollar!  What  an  infa- 
mous lie.  Just  one  guilder !  Bah,  what  a  man,  who 
counts  his  money  before  he  goes  to  bed ! 

Bos.    Bejour!  bejour! 

MATHILDE.  Very  well,  don't  give  it — Then  I  can 
treat  the  Burgomaster's  wife  to  a  glass  of  gin  pres- 
ently— three  jugs  of  old  gin  and  not  a  single  bottle 
of  port  or  sherry!  [Bos  angrily  throws  down  tivo 
rix  dollars.]  Say,  am  I  your  servant?  If  it  wasn't 
for  me  you  wouldn  't  be  throwing  rix  dollars  around ! 
— Bah!  [Goes  off  angrily.] 

KAPS.  [Reading.]  Ijmuiden,  24  December — To- 
day there  were  four  sloops  in  the  market  with  500 


86  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

to  800  live  and  1,500  to  2,100  dead  haddock  and 
some — live  cod — The  live  cod  brought  T1/^ — the 
dead 

Bos.    Haven 't  you  anything  else  to  do? 

KAPS.  The  dead  haddock  brought  thirteen  and  a 
half  guilders  a  basket. 

Bos.  [Knocking  on  the  desk.]  I  know  all  that! 
Here,  take  hold !  Take  your  book — turn  to  the  credit 
page  of  the  Expectation 

KAPS.  [Looking.]  The  Jacoba?  no,  the  Queen 
Wilhelmina?  no,  the  Mathilde?  no — the  Good  hope! 
— We  can  whistle  for  her.  The  Expectation? 

Bos.    What  was  the  gross  total? 

KAPS.  Fourteen  hundred  and  forty-three  guild- 
ers and  forty-seven  cents. 

Bos.  I  thought  so.  How  could  you  be  so  ungodly 
stupid,  to  deduct  four  guilders,  88,  for  the  widows 
and  orphans'  fund? 

KAPS.  Let's  see.  [Figuring.] — 1,443 — 3  per  cent 
off — that's  1,400 — that's  gross  three  hundred  and  87 
guilders — yes,  it  should  be  three  guilders,  88,  instead 
of  four,  88. 

Bos.  [Rising.]  If  you're  going  into  your  dotage, 
Jackass !  you  can  go.  Your  errors  are  always  on  the 
wrong  side! 

KAPS.  [With  a  knowing  laugh.]  There  might  be 
something  to  say  against  that,  Meneer — you  didn't 
go  after  me  when,  when 

Bos.    Now,  that  '11  do,  that  '11  do ! 

KAPS.  And  that  was  an  error  with  a  couple  of  big 
ciphers  after  it.  [Bos  goes  off  impatiently  at  right.] 
Hehehe !  It  all  depends  on  what  side 

[Looks  around,  sees  Bos  is  gone,  pokes  up  the  fire; 
fills  his  pipe  from  Bos's  tobacco  jar,  carefully  steals 
a  couple  of  cigars  from  his  box.] 

SIMON.     [Entering.]    Is  Bos  here? 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  87. 

KAPS.    Mynheer  Bos,  eh?  —  no. 
SIMON.    Is  he  out? 

KAPS.     Can't  you  give  me  the  message! 
SIMON.    I  ask  you,  is  he  out  ? 
KAPS.    Yes. 
SIMON.    No  tidings  ? 

KAPS.    No.    Has  this  running  back  and  forth  be- 
gun again?    Meneer  said  that  when  he  got  news, 


SIMON.    It  will  be  nine  weeks  tomorrow. 

KAPS.  The  Jacoba  came  in  after  fifty-nine  days' 
lost  time. 

SIMON.    You  are  —  You  know  more  than  you  let  on. 

KAPS.    Are  you  loaded  already? 

SIMON.    Not  a  drop. 

KAPS.  Then  it's  time  —  I  know  more,  eh?  I'm 
holding  off  the  ships  by  ropes,  eh? 

SIMON.  I  warned  you  folks  when  that  ship  lay  in 
the  docks.  What  were  the  words  I  spoke  then,  eh  I 

KAPS.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  All  tales  on 
your  part  for  a  glass  of  gin  ! 

SIMON.  You  lie.  You  was  there,  and  the  Miss 
was  there.  I  says,  "The  ship  is  rotten,  that  caulk- 
ing was  damn  useless.  That  a  floating  coffin  like 
that"  - 

KAPS.  Good!  that's  what  you  said.  I  don't  deny 
it.  What  of  it  ?  Are  you  so  clever  that  when  you're 
half  drunk  - 

SIMON.     [Angry.]     That's  a  damned  lie! 

KAPS.  Not  drunk  then,  are  you  such  an  authority, 
you  a  shipmaster's  assistant,  that  when  you  say 
"no,"  and  the  owner  and  the  Insurance  Company 
say  "yes,"  my  employer  must  put  his  ship  in  the 
dry  docks? 

SIMON.  Damned  rot  !  I  warned  you  !  And  now, 
I  say  —  now,  I  say  —  that  if  Mees,  my  daughter's  be- 


88  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

trothed,  not  to  speak  of  the  others,  if  Mees — there 
will  be  murder. 

KAPS.  You  make  me  laugh!  Go  get  yourself  a 
dram  and  talk  sense. 

[Enter  MARIETJE.] 

SIMON.    Better  have  stayed  outside.    No  tidings. 

MARIETJE.     [Softly  sobbing.]     No  tidings. 

SIMON.    Murder  will  come  of  it.     [Both  off.] 

Bos.     [Enters.]     Who's  here? 

KAPS.  Simon  and  his  daughter.  Threats!  Are 
you  going  out! 

Bos.  Threats!  Is  the  fellow  insane?  I'll  be 
back  in  ten  minutes.  Whoever  comes  must  wait. 

KAPS.    He  spoke  of 

Bos.    I  don't  care  to  hear!     [Off.] 

KAPS.  [Goes  back  to  his  desk;  the  telephone  rings. 
He  solemnly  listens  at  the  receiver.]  Can't  under- 
stand you.  I  am  the  bookkeeper.  Mynheer  will  be 
back  in  ten  minutes.  Eing  up  again. 

[Enter  SAABT.] 

SAART.    Good  day,  my  dear. 

KAPS.    You  here  again  ?    What  do  you  want  ? 

SAART.  I  want  you — Jesus!  What  a  cold  wind! 
May  I  warm  my  hands  a  moment? 

KAPS.    Stay  on  that  side  of  the  railing. 

SAART.  Sweet  beast !  You  make  me  tired.  Myn- 
heer Bos  just  went  round  the  corner.  [Warms  her- 
self.] No  use  asking  about  the  Hope.  Jesus !  Seven 
families.  How  lucky  that  outside  of  the  children 
there  were  three  unmarried  men  on  board.  Nothing 
washed  ashore  anywhere? 

KAPS.    No,  no! 

SAART.    Now,  don't  eat  me  up. 

KAPS.  I  wish  you'd  stay  behind  the  railing.  What 
do  you  want? 

SAART.     [Looking  in  his  pocket.]     Look  out!    Or 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  89 

you'll  break  Meneer's  cigars.  Old  thief!  [He 
smiles.]  Kaps,  do  you  want  to  make  a  guilder? 

KAPS.     That  depends. 

SAART.    I'm  engaged  to  Bol,  the  skipper. 

KAPS.    I  congratulate  you! 

SAART.  He's  lying  here,  with  a  load  of  peat  for 
the  city.  Now,  how  can  I  marry  him? 

KAPS.     How  can  you? 

SAART.  I  can't;  because  they  don't  know  if  my 
husband's  dead. 

KAPS.    The  legal  limit  is 

SAART.    I  know  that  much  myself. 

KAPS.  You  must  summons  him,  'pro  Deo,'  three 
times  in  the  papers  and  if  he  doesn't  come  then,  and 
that  he  '11  not  do,  for  there  aren  't  any  more  ghosts  in 
the  world,  then  you  can 

SAART.  Now,  if  you  'd  attend  to  this  little  matter, 
Bol  and  I  would  always  be  grateful  to  you. 

KAPS.  That  is  lawyer's  business.  You  must  go 
to  the  city  for  that. 

SAART.  Gracious,  what  botheration !  When  your 
common  sense  tells  you  I  haven 't  seen  Jacob  in  three 
years  and  the 

[CoBus  enters,  trembling  with  agitation.] 

COB.    There  are  tidings!    There  are  tidings! 

KAPS.    Tidings  f    What  are  you  telling  us  ? 

COB.  [Almost  crying.]  There  must  be  tidings  of 
the  boys — of — of — the  Hope. 

KAPS.  Nothing!  [Friendlier.]  Now,  there  is  no 
use  in  your  coming  to  this  office  day  after  day.  I 
haven't  any  good  news  to  give  you,  the  bad  you 
already  know.  Sixty-two  days 

COB.  The  water  bailiff  received  a  telegram.  Ach, 
ach,  ach;  Meneer  Kaps,  help  us  out  of  this  uncer- 
tainty. My  sister — and  my  niece — are  simply  insane 
with  grief.  [Trembling  violently.] 


90  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KAPS.  On  my  word  of  honor.  Are  you  running 
away  again! 

COB.  My  niece  is  sitting  alone  at  home — my  sister 
is  at  the  Priest's,  cleaning  house.  There  must  be 
something — there  must  be  something. 

KAPS.    Who  made  you  believe  that? 

COB.  The  water  bailiff's  clerk  said — said — Ach, 
dear  God [Off.} 

SAABT.    Perhaps  he  is  right. 

KAPS.    Everything  is  possible. 

SAART.    Has  Meneer  Bos  any  hope? 

KAPS.  Hope?  Nine  weeks!  that  old  ship!  after 
that  storm — all  things  are  possible.  No,  I  wouldn't 
give  a  cent  for  it.  Provisions  for  six  weeks.  If 
they  had  run  into  an  English  harbor,  we  would  have 
had  tidings. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Enters.}  Good  day,  Saart.  Are 
there  visitors  inside,  Kaps? 

KAPS.  [Looking  through  window.}  The  Burgo- 
master's carriage.  Committee  meeting  for  the  clock. 
A  new  span.  I  wish  I  had  their  money. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Laying  her  sketch  book  on  KAPS'S 
desk.]  I  saw  Cobus  go  by.  Poor  thing!  How  he 
has  aged.  I  hardly  recognized  him.  [Opening  the 
sketch  book.]  Look.  That's  the  way  he  was  three 
months  ago,  hale  and  jolly.  You  may  look,  too,  Kaps. 

KAPS.    No,  Miss,  I  haven't  the  time. 

SAABT.  Daantje's  death  was  a  blow  to  him — you 
always  saw  them  together,  always  discussing.  Now 
he  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  "Home";  that  makes  a 
big  difference. 

CLEMENTINE.    Do  you  recognize  these? 

SAART.  Well,  that's  Kneir,  that's  Barend  with  the 
basket  on  his  back,  and  that's — [The  telephone  bell 
rings.  CLEMENTINE  closes  her  book.] 

KAPS.    Meneer  is  out.    They  rang  once  before. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  91 

CLEMENTINE.  [Listening  at  telephone.]  Yes! — 
Papa  isn't  here.  How  long  will  he  be,  Kaps? 

KAPS.    Two  or  three  minutes. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Startled.]  What  did  you  say!  A 
hatch  marked  47 —  and — [Trembling.] — I  don't 
understand  you.  [Screams  and  lets  the  receiver 
fall.] 

KAPS.    What's  that?    What's  that? 

CLEMENTINE.  [Painfully  shocked.]  I  don't  dare 
listen — Oh,  oh! 

KAPS.    Was  that  the  water  bailiff? 

CLEMENTINE.  [Passionately.]  Barend  washed 
ashore.  Oh  God,  now  it  is  ended ! 

SAART.     Barend? Barend? 

CLEMENTINE.    A  telegram  from  Nieuwediep.    A 

hatch — and  a  corpse 

[Enter  Bos.] 

Bos.   What's  going  on  here?  Why  are  you  crying? 

KAPS.    Tidings  of  the  Good  Hope. 

Bos.    Tidings? 

KAPS.    The  water  bailiff  is  on  the  'phone. 

Bos.  The  water  bailiff? — Step  aside — Go  along, 
you !  What  are  you  gaping  at  ? 

SAART.    I — I — [Goes  timidly  off.] 

Bos.  [Ringing.]  Hello!  Who  is  that?  The 
water  bailiff?  A  telegram  from  Nieuwediep ?  North 
of  the  Hook?  I  don't  understand  a  word!  Stop 
your  howling!  a  hatch,  you  say?  47? — Well,  that's 
damned  —  miserable  —  that!  the  corpse — advanced 
stage  of  decomposition!  Barend — mustered  in  as 
oldest  boy !  Recognized  by  who  ?  by — oh ! — The  Ex- 
pectation has  come  into  Nieuwediep  disabled?  And 
did  Skipper  Maatsuiker  recognize  him?  Earrings? 
Yes,  yes,  silver  earrings.  No,  never  mincl  that.  So 
it  isn't  necessary  to  send  any  one  from  here  for  the 
identification?  Yes,  damned  sad — yes — yes — we  are 


92  TEE  GOOD  HOPE 

in  God's  hand — Yes — yes — I  no  longer  had  any 
doubts — thank  you — yes — I'd  like  to  get  the  official 
report  as  soon  as  possible.  I  will  inform  the  under- 
writers, bejour!  [Hangs  up  the  receiver.]  I'm 
simply  dead !  twelve  men ! 

KAPS.  Barend?  Kneirtje's  son?  Washed  ashore? 
That's — that's  a  wonder.  I  never  expected  to  hear 
of  the  ship  again.  With  the  Clementine. 

Bos.  [Angrily.]  Yes  —  yes  —  yes  —  yes  —  [To 
CLEMENTINE.]  Go  inside  to  your  mother!  What 
stupidity  to  repeat  what  you  heard  in  that  woman 's 
presence.  It  won't  be  five  minutes  now  till  half  the 
village  is  here!  Don't  you  understand  me?  You 
sit  there,  God  save  me,  and  take  on  as  if  your  lover 
was  aboard 

CLEMENTINE.  Why  didn't  you  listen!  [Sobs 
softly.] 

Bos.    Listen ! 

CLEMENTINE.  When  Simon,  the  shipbuilder's  as- 
sistant  

Bos.    The  fellow  was  drunk. 

CLEMENTINE.    [Firmly.]    He  was  not! 

Bos.  He  was,  too!  And  if  he  hadn't  been,  what 
right  have  you  to  stick  your  nose  into  matters  you 
don 't  understand  ? 

CLEMENTINE.    Dear.  God,  now  I  am  also  guilty 

Bos.  [Angrily.]  Guilty?  Guilty!  Have  the 
novels  you  read  gone  to  your  head?  Guilty!  Are 
you  possessed,  to  use  those  words  after  such  an 
accident  ? 

CLEMENTINE.  He  said  that  the  ship  was  a  floating 
coffin.  Then  I  heard  you  say  that  in  any  case  it  would 
be  the  last  voyage  for  the  Hope. 

Bos.  [Angrily  at  first.]  That  damned  boarding 
school;  those  damned  boarding  school  fads!  Walk 
if  you  like  through  the  village  like  a  fool,  sketch- 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  93 

ing  the  first  rascal  or  beggar  you  meet!  But  don't 
blab  out  things  you  can  be  held  to  account  for.  A 
floating  coffin!  Say,  rather,  a  drunken  authority — 
The  North,  of  Pieterse,  and  the  Surprise  and  the 
Willem  III  and  the  Young  John.  I  can  keep  on  nam- 
ing them.  Half  of  the  fishing  fleet  and  half  the  mer- 
chant fleet  are  floating  coffins.  Did  you  hear  that, 
Kaps! 

KAPS.  {Timidly.}  No,  Meneer,  I  don't  hear  any- 
thing. 

Bos.  If  you  had  asked  me:  "Father,  how  is 
this?"  I  would  have  explained  it  to  you.  But  you 
conceited  young  people  meddle  with  everything  and 
more,  too!  What  stronger  proof  is  there  than  the 
yearly  inspection  of  the  ships  by  the  underwriters? 
Do  you  suppose  that  when  I  presently  ring  up  the 
underwriter  and  say  to  him,  "Meneer,  you  can  plank 
down  fourteen  hundred  guilders '  '• — that  he  does  that 
on  loose  grounds  ?  You  ought  to  have  a  face  as  red 
as  a  buoy  in  shame  for  the  way  you  flapped  out  your 
nonsense !  Nonsense,  I  say !  Nonsense ;  that  might 
take  away  my  good  name,  if  I  wasn't  so  well  known. 

CLEMENTINE.  [Sadly.]  If  I  were  a  ship  owner — 
and  I  heard 

Bos.  God  preserve  the  fishery  from  an  owner 
who  makes  drawings  and  cries  over  pretty  vases! 
I  stand  as  a  father  at  the  head  of  a  hundred  homes. 
Business  is  business.  When  you  get  sensitive  you 
go  head  over  heels.  What,  Kaps?  [KAPS  makes  a 
motion  that  he  cannot  hear.]  Now,  go  to  your 
mother.  The  Burgomaster's  wife  is  making  a  call. 

KAPS.  Here  is  the  muster  roll.  [Reading.]  Wil- 
lem Hengst,  aged  thirty-seven,  married,  four  chil- 
dren  

Bos.    Wait  a  moment  till  my  daughter- 


CLEMENTINE.     I  won't  speak  another  word. 


94  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KAPS.  [Reading  on.}  Jacob  Zwart,  aged  thirty- 
five  years,  married,  three  children.  Gerrit  Plas, 
aged  twenty-five  years,  married,  one  child.  Geert 
Vermeer,  unmarried,  aged  twenty-six  years.  Nellis 
Boom,  aged  thirty-five  years,  married,  seven  chil- 
dren. Klaas  Steen,  aged  twenty-four  years,  married. 
Solomon  Bergen,  aged  twenty-five  years,  married, 
one  child.  Mari  Stad,  aged  forty-five  years,  mar- 
ried. Mees,  aged  nineteen  years.  Jacob  Boom,  aged 
twenty  years.  Barend  Vermeer,  aged  nineteen  years. 
Pietje  Stappers,  aged  twelve  years. 

Bos.     [Cast  down.]    Seven  homes. 

CLEMENTINE.     Sixteen  children. 

[Enter  TRUUS  and  MARIETJE.] 

TRUUS.  [Panting.]  Are  there  tidings!  Tidings 
of  my  little  son?  [Wild  despair.]  Ach,  God!  Ach, 
God ;  don 't  make  me  unhappy,  Meneer ! 

Bos.    I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Stappers 

MARIETJE.  [Shrieking.]  It  can't  be!  It  can't 
be!  You  lie! — It  isn't  possible! 

Bos.  [Gently.}  The  Burgomaster  at  Nieuwediep 
has  telegraphed  the  water  bailiff.  Barend  Vermeer 
was  washed  ashore.  You  know  what  that  means, 
and  a  hatch  of  the  47 

TRUUS.  [Loudly.]  Oh,  Mother  Mary,  must  I 
lose  that  child,  tool  that  lamb  of  twelve  years! 
[With  a  whimpering  cry.]  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh!  Oh,  oh, 
oh,  oh ! — Pietje — Pietje 

MARIETJE.  [Bewildered.]  Then — Then — [Bursts 
into  a  hysterical  laugh.]  Hahaha! — Hahaha! 

Bos.    Give  her  a  glass  of  water. 

MARIETJE.  [Striking  the  glass  from  CLEMENTINE'S 
hand.]  Go  away!  Go  away!  [Falling  on  her 
knees,  her  hands  catching  hold  of  the  railing  gate.] 
Let  me  die! — Let  me  die,  please,  dear  God,  dear 
God! 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  95 

CLEMENTINE.  [Sobbing.']  Come  Marietje,  be 
calm;  get  up. 

TRUUS.  On  his  first  voyage.  And  so  brave ;  as  he 
stood  there,  waving,  when  the  ship — [Sobs  loudly.] 

Bos.  It  can't  be  helped,  Truus.  It  is  a  visitation. 
There  hasn  't  been  a  storm  like  that  in  years.  Think 
of  Hengst  with  four  children,  and  Jacob  and  Gerrit 
— And,  although  it's  no  consolation,  I  will  hand  you 
your  boy's  wages  today,  if  you  like.  Both  of  you 
go  home  now  and  resign  yourselves  to  the  inevitable 
— take  her  with  you — she  seems 

MARIETJE.  [With  trembling  sobs.]  I  don't  want 
to  go  home.  I  want  to  die,  die 

CLEMENTINE.     [Supporting  her.]     Cry,  Marietje, 

cry,  poor  lamb 

[They  go  off.] 

Bos.  [Angrily  walking  back  and  forth.]  What's 
the  matter  with  you!  Are  you  too  lazy  to  put  pen  to 
paper  today?  You  needn't  answer!  Have  you  the 
Widows'  and  Orphans'  fund  at  hand?  Well! 

KAPS.  [Shuffling  to  the  safe.]  The  top  drawer 
is  still  locked.  [Bos  throws  him  the  keys.]  Oh, 
thank  you.  [Opens  the  safe,  shuffles  back  to  Bos's 
desk  with  the  book.]  If  you  please,  Meneer. 

Bos.  Ninety-five  widows,  fourteen  old  sailors  and 
fishermen. 

KAPS.  Yes,  the  fund  fell  short  some  time  ago. 
We  will  have  to  put  in  another  appeal. 

MATHILDE.  [Entering.]  Clemens,  what  a  misfor- 
tune !  The  Burgomaster 's  wife  asks  if  you  will  come 
in  for  a  moment.  She  sits  there  crying. 

Bos.    No!    Crying  enough  here.    No  time! 

MATHILDE.  Ach!  Ach!  Kaps,  here  is  the  copy 
for  the  circular.  Hurry,  do  you  hear ! 

Bos.  Talk  to  her  about  making  a  public  appeal 
for  the  unfortunates. 


96  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

MATHILDE.  Yes,  but,  Clemens,  isn't  that  overdo- 
ing it,  two  begging  parties? 

Bos.    I  will  do  it  myself,  then — [Both  exit.] 

CLEMENTINE.  [Enters.  Softly  weeping.]  Kaps! 
Kaps!  [Goes  to  his  desk  and  sits  down  opposite  to 
him.]  I  feel  so  miserable 

KAPS.  Very  unwise,  Miss.  Many  ships  go  down. 
The  Good  Hope  scarcely  counts.  I  have  it  here. 
Where  is  it?  where  is  it?  The  statement  of  Veritas 
for  October — October  alone ;  lost,  105  sailing  vessels 
and  30  steamships — that's  a  low  estimate;  fifteen 
hundred  dead  in  one  month.  [Pointing  to  the  sea.] 
Yes,  when  you  see  it  as  it  appears  today,  so  smooth, 
with  the  floating  gulls,  you  wouldn't  believe  that  it 
murders  so  many  people. 

[Enter  Jo  and  COBUS.] 

CLEMENTINE.  [To  Jo  and  COBUS,  who  sit  alone  in 
a  dazed  way.]  Come  in,  Jo.  Jo !  [Jo  sloivly  shakes 
her  head.] 

COB.  [Trembling.}  We  have  just  run  from 
home — for  Saart  just  as  I  said — just  as  I  said 

[Enter  Bos.] 

Bos.  [To  Jo.]  Here,  sit  down.  [Shoves  a  chair 
by  the  stove.]  You  stay  where  you  are,  Cobus.  You 
have  no  doubt  heard? 

Jo.  [Sobbing.]  About  Barend?  Yes,  but  Geert ! 
It  happens  so  often  that  they  get  off  in  row  boats. 

Bos.  I  can't  give  you  that  consolation.  Not  only 
was  there  a  hatch,  but  the  corpse  was  in  an  extreme 
state  of  dissolution. 

Jo.  [Anxiously.]  Yes!  Yes!  But  if  it  shouldn 't 
be  Barend.  Who  says  it  was  Barend? 

Bos.  Skipper  Maatsuiker  of  the  Expectation 
identified  him,  and  the  earrings. 

Jo.    Maatsuiker?  Maatsuiker?  And  if — he  should 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  97 

be  mistaken I've  come  to  ask  you  for  money, 

Meneer,  so  I  can  go  to  the  Helder  myself. 

Bos.    Come,  that's  foolish! 

Jo.     [Crying.]    Barend  must  be  buried  any  way. 

Bos.    The  Burgomaster  of  Nieuwediep  will  take 

care  of  that 

[Enter  SIMON.] 

SIMON.     [Drunk.]    I —  I —  heard [Makes  a 

strong  gesture  towards  Bos.] 

Bos.  [Nervous  vehemence.]  Get  out,  you  drunken 
sot! 

SIMON.  [Stammering.]  I —  I —  won't  murder 
you.  I —  I —  have  no  evil  intentions 

Bos.  [Trembling.]  Send  for  a  policeman,  Kaps. 
Must  that  drunken  fellow 

SIMON.  [Steadying  himself  by  holding  to  the 
gate.]  No — stay  where  you  are — I 'm  going — I —  I — 
only  wanted  to  say  how  nicely  it  came  out — with — 
with — The  Good  Hope. 

Bos.    You  get  out,  immediately! 

SIMON.   Don't  come  so  close  to  me — never  come  so 

close  to  a  man  with  a  knife No-o-o-o — I  have  no 

bad  intentions.    I  only  wanted  to  say,  that  I  warned 
you — when — she  lay  in  the  docks. 

Bos.    You  lie,  you  rascal ! 

SIMON.  Now  just  for  the  joke  of  it — you  ask — ask 
— ask  your  bookkeeper  and  your  daughter — who 
were  there 

Bos.  [Vehemently.]  That's  a  lie.  You're  not 
worth  an  answer,  you  sot !  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you !  My  business  is  with  your  employer.  Did  you 
understand  me,  Kaps! 

SIMON.  My  employer — doesn't  do  the  caulking 
himself.  [To  KAPS,  who  has  advanced  to  the  gate.] 
Didn't  I  warn  him? — wasn't  you  there? 


98  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

KAPS.     [Looking  anxiously  at  Bos.]    No,  I  wasn't 

there,  and  even  if  I  was,  I  didn't  hear  anything. 
Bos.     [To  CLEMENTINE.]  And  now,  you!    Did  that 

drunken  sot 

CLEMENTINE.      [Almost    crying    with    anxiety.] 

Papa! 
Bos.     [Threatening.]     As  my  daughter  do  you 

permit [Grimly.]    Answer  me! 

CLEMENTINE.    [Anxiously.]  I  don't  remember 

SIMON.    That's  low — that's  low — damned  low!    I 

said,  the  ship  was  rotten — rotten- 
Bos.    A  drunken  man's  stories.    You're  trying  to 

drag  in   my  bookkeeper   and   daughter,   and   you 

hear 


COB.     Yes,     but — yes,     but — now    I     remember 


By  thunder !  you  warned  us  too,  eh  f 
No,  no,  that  would  be  lying.  But  your 
daughter — your  daughter  says  now  that  she  hadn't 
heard  the  ship  was  rotten.  And  on  the  second  night 
of  the  storm,  when  she  was  alone  with  me  at  my  sis- 
ter Kneirtje's,  she  did  say  that — that- 


CLEMENTINE.     [Trembling.]     Did  I — say- 


COB.  Yes,  that  you  did!  That  very  evening. 
These  are  my  own  words  to  you:  "Now  you  are  fib- 
bing, Miss ;  for  if  your  father  knew  the  Good  Hope 
was  rotten" 

Jo.  [Springing  up  wildly,  speaking  ivith  piercing 
distinctness.]  You,  you  lie !  You  began  to  cry.  You 
were  afraid  ships  would  be  lost.  I  was  there,  and 
Truus  was  there,  and Oh,  you  adders ! 

Bos.  [Banging  his  desk  with  his  fist.]  Adders? 
Adders  ?  You  scum !  Who  gives  you  your  feed,  year 
in,  year  out  ?  Haven 't  you  decency  enough  to  believe 
us  instead  of  that  drunken  beggar  who  reels  as  he 
stands  there? 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  99 

Jo.  [Raving  with  anger. ]  Believe  you?  You! 
She  lies  and  you  lie ! 

Bos.     [Threatening.]    Get  out  of  my  office! 

Jo.  You  had  Barend  dragged  on  board  by  the 
police;  Geert  was  too  proud  to  be  taken!  Thief! 
thief!  [Overwrought,  hysterical  laugh.]  No,  no, 
you  needn  't  point  to  your  door !  We  are  going.  If 
I  staid  here  any  longer  I  would  spit  in  your  face — 
spit  in  your  face !  [Makes  threatening  gesture.] 

COB.     [Restraining  her]    Come — come 

Bos.  [After  a  silence.]  For  your  Aunt's  sake  I 
will  consider  that  you  are  overwrought ;  otherwise- 
otherwise The  Good  Hope  was  seaworthy,  was 

seaworthy !  Have  I  no  loss  ?  Even  if  the  ship  was 
insured!  And  even  had  the  fellow  warned  me — 
which  is  a  lie,  could  I,  a  business  man,  take  the  word 
of  a  drunkard  who  can  no  longer  get  a  job  because 
he  is  unable  to  handle  tools  f 

SIMON.  [Stammering.]  I — I  told  you  and  him 
and  her — that  a  floating  coffin  like  that.  That  stands 
fast! 

Jo.  [Bursting  out.]  Oh!  oh!  Geert  and  Barend 
and  Mees  and  the  others!  Oh  God,  how  could  you 
allow  it!  [Sinks  on  the  chair  sobbing.]  Give  me  the 
money  to  go  to  Nieuwediep  myself,  then  I  won't 
speak  of  it  any  more. 

Bos.  [Vindictively]  No!  Not  a  red  centl  A 
girl  that  talks  to  me  as  rudely  as  you  did 

Jo.  [Confused,  crying]  I  don 't  know  what  I  said 
— and — and — I  don't  believe  that  you — that  you — 
that  you  would  be  worse  than  the  devil. 

Bos.  The  water-bailiff  says  that  it  isn't  necessary 
to  send  any  one  to  Nieuwediep. 

Jo.  [Staggering  to  the  door.]  Not  necessary! 

Not  necessary!  What  will  become  of  me  now? 

[CoBus  and  SIMON  follow  her  out.] 


100  TEE  GOOD  HOPE 

[Bos  walks  back  and  forth.  KAPS  creeps  up  on  his 
stool.] 

Bos.  [To  CLEMENTINE.]  And  you — don't  you 
ever  dare  to  set  foot  again  in  my  office. 

CLEMENTINE.  [With  a  terrified  look.]  No,  never 
again.  [A  long  pause.]  Father,  I  ask  myself 
[Bursts  into  sobs.]  how  I  can  ever  again  respect  you? 
Ever  again  respect  myself?  [Exits.] 

Bos.  Crazy !  She  would  be  capable  of  ruining  my 
good  name — with  her  boarding-school  whims.  Who 
ever  comes  now  you  send  away,  understand  ?  Trash ! 
Rabble !  That  whole  set  are  no  good !  That  damned 
drunkard !  That  fellow  that  stinks  of  gin !  [Sound 
of  JELLE'S  fiddle  outside.]  That  too?  [At  the  win- 
dow.] Goon!  No,  not  a  cent!  [The  music  stops.] 
I  am  simply  worn  out.  [Falls  into  his  chair,  takes 
up  CLEMENTINE'S  sketch  book;  spitefully  turns  the 
leaves;  throws  it  on  the  floor;  stoops,  jerks  out  a 
couple  of  leaves,  tears  them  up.  Sits  in  thought  a 
moment,  then  rings  the  telephone.]  Hello !  with  Dirk- 
sen — Dirksen,  I  say,  the  underwriter!  [Waits,  look- 
ing sombre.]  Hello!  Are  you  there,  Dirksen?  It's 
all  up  with  the  Good  Hope.  A  hatch  with  my  mark 
washed  ashore  and  the  body  of  a  sailor.  [Changing 
to  quarrelsome  tone.]  What  do  you  say?  I  should 
say  not !  No  question  of  it !  Sixty-two  days !  The 
probabilities  are  too  small.  [Calmer.]  Good!  I 
shall  wait  for  you  here  at  my  office.  But  be  quick 
about  it!  Yes,  fourteen  hundred  guilders.  Bejour. 
[Rings  off;  at  the  last  words  KNEIRTJE  has  entered.] 

KNEIRTJE.  [Absently.]  I [She  sinks  on  the 

bench,  patiently  weeping.] 

Bos.  [At  the  safe,  without  seeing  her.]  Have  you 
mislaid  the  policies?  You  never  put  a  damn  thing  in 
its  place. 


THE  GOOD  HOPE  101 

KAPS.  {Pointing  from  his  stool.]  The  policies  are 
higher,  behind  the  stocks. 

Bos.  [Snappishly,]  All  right,  shut  your  mouth, 
now !  [ Turning  around  with  the  policies  in  his  hand.] 
Why  don't  you  knock! 

KNEIRTJE.    I  wanted  to 

Bos.  [Peevishly.]  You've  come  five  minutes  too 
late.  That  hussy  that  lives  with  you  has  been  in  here 
kicking  up  such  a  scandal  that  I  came  near  telephon- 
ing for  the  police.  [Crossly.]  Come  in.  Close  the 
gate  after  you. 

KNEIETJE.  [Speaking  with  difficulty.]  Is  it  true 

— is  it  true  that The  priest  said [Bos  nods 

with  a  sombre  expression.]  Oh,  oh [She  stares 

helplessly,  her  arms  hang  limp.] 

Bos.  I  have  sympathy  for  you.  I  know  you  as 
a  respectable  woman — and  your  husband  too.  But 
your  children!  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say  it  to  you 
now  after  such  a  blow,  your  children  and  that  niece 
of  yours  have  never  been  any  good.  [  KNEIRTJE 's 
head  sinks  down.]  How  many  years  haven't  we  had 
you  around,  until  your  son  Geert  threatened  me  with 
his  fists,  mocked  my  grey  hairs,  and  all  but  threw  me 
out  of  your  house — and  your  other  son [Fright- 
ened.] Kneirtje!  Kneirtje!  [Rising.]  Kaps! 
Water!  [Bathing  her  forehead  and  wrists.]  I'll  be 
damned !  I  '11  be  damned ! 

KAPS.    Shall  I  call  Mevrouw  or  your  daughter? 

Bos.  No!  Stay  here!  she's  coming  to.  [KNEIR. 
with  long  drawn  out  sobs,  sits  looking  before  her  with 
a  dazed  stare.] 

KAPS.    Kneir 

Bos.    Keep  still !    Let  her  have  her  cry. 

KNEIETJE.  [In  an  agonised  voice,  broken  with 
sobs.]  He  didn't  want  to  go!  He  didn't  want  to 


102  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

go !  And  with  my  own  hands  I  loosened  his  fingers 
from  the  door  post.  [Moans  softly.] 

Bos.  [In  a  muffled  voice.]  You  have  no  cause  to 
reproach  yourself 

KNEIRTJE.  [In  the  same  voice  as  before.]  Before 
he  went  I  hung  his  father's  rings  in  his  ears.  Like — 
like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter 

Bos.    Come 

KNEIRTJE.     [Panting.]    And  my  oldest  boy  that  I 

didn't  bid  good  bye "If  you're  too  late" — 

these  were  his  words — "I'll  never  look  at  you 
again." — "Never  look  at  you  again!" 

Bos.  [Strongly  moved.]  Stop!  in  God's  name, 
stop ! 

KNEIRTJE.  Twelve  years  ago — when  the  Clemen- 
tine— I  sat  here  as  I  am  now.  [Sobs  ^vith  her  face 
between  her  trembling  old  hands.] 

Bos.    Come  now,  be  strong. 

[MATHILDE  enters.] 

MATHILDE.  Clemens!  Ach,  poor,  dear  Kneir,  I 
am  so  sorry  for  you.  It's  dreadful!  It  is  frightful! 
Two  sons! 

KNEIRTJE.  [Staring.]  My  husband  and  four 
sons 

MATHILDE.  [Consoling.]  But  don't  you  worry. 
We  have  written  an  appeal,  the  Burgomaster's  wife 
and  I,  and  it 's  going  to  be  in  all  the  papers  tomorrow. 

Here,  Kaps [Hands  KAPS  a  sheet  of  paper 

which  he  places  on  desk — Bos  motions  to  her  to  go.] 
Let  her  wait  a  while,  Clemens.  [Sweetly. ]  I  have  a 
couple  of  cold  chops — that  will  brace  her  up — and — 
and — let's  make  up  with  her.  You  have  no  objec- 
tions to  her  coming  again  to  do  the  cleaning?  We 
won't  forget  you,  do  you  hear?  Good  day,  Kneir. 
Be  brave.  [Exits.] 

Bos,    No,  we  will  not  forget  you. 


TEE  GOOD  HOPE  103 

KNEIBTJE.  Now,  my  only  hope  is — my  niece's 
child. 

Bos.     [Surprised.]    A  child1? 

KNEIETJE.  That  misfortune  is  added.  She  is  with 

child  by  my  son [Softly  smiling.}  Misfortune? 

No,  that  isn  't  a  misfortune  now 

Bos.  And  you  sit  and  tell  that  ?  This  immorality 
under  your  own  roof?  Don't  you  know  the  rules  of 
the  fund,  that  no  aid  can  be  extended  to  anyone 
leading  an  immoral  life,  or  whose  conduct  does  not 
meet  with  our  approval? 

KNEIKTJE.  [Submissive  voice.}  I  leave  it  to  the 
gentlemen  themselves — to  do  for  me — the  gentle- 
men  

Bos.  It  will  be  a  tussle  with  the  Committee — the 
committee  of  the  fund — your  son  had  been  in  prison 
and  sang  revolutionary  songs.  And  your  niece 
who However,  I  will  do  my  best.  I  shall  recom- 
mend you,  but  I  can't  promise  anything.  There  are 
seven  new  families,  awaiting  aid,  sixteen  new  or- 
phans. [Rising  and  closing  the  safe.]  No,  sit  awhile 
longer.  My  wife  wants  to  give  you  something  to  take 
home  with  you.  [Exits.] 

MATHILDE.  [Invisible.]  Kaps!  Kaps!  [The 
bookkeeper  rises,  disappears  for  a  moment,  and  re- 
turns ivith  a  dish  and  an  enamelled  pan.] 

KAPS.  [Kindly.]  If  you  will  return  the  dish  when 
it's  convenient,  and  if  you'll  come  again  Saturday, 
to  do  the  cleaning.  [She  stares  vacantly.  He  closes 
her  nerveless  hands  about  the  dish  and  pan;  shuffles 
back  to  his  stool.  A  silence.  KNEIKTJE  sits  motion- 
less, in  dazed  agony;  mumbles — moves  her  lips- — * 
rises  with  difficulty,  stumbles  out  of  the  office.] 

KAPS.  [Taking  up  sheet  of  paper  from  desk.] 
Appeal,  for  the  newspapers !  [Smiling  sardonically, 
he  comes  to  the  foreground;  leaning  on  Bos's  desk,  he 


104  THE  GOOD  HOPE 

reads.]  "Benevolent  Fellow  Countrymen:  Again 
we  urge  upon  your  generosity  an  appeal  in  behalf  of 
a  number  of  destitute  widows  and  orphans.  The 
lugger  Good  Hope [As  he  continues  reading.] 

CUETAIN. 


is  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


3  1158009257717 


